Today we celebrate all the amazing dads and granddads, and my dad is no exception.
If you’ve been following my posts about my dad, you know that my dad has Alzheimer’s and now lives in a nursing home. A friend publishes this awesome blog with posts written solely by women, called Women.Who.Write. She published my Mother’s Day essay, and immediately requested one for Father’s Day. Easier said than done. But this exercise helped me to identify and begin to confront some of the many complex emotions that Alzheimer’s elicits.
Have a read. My Dad: Reflections, Lessons, Love…and Celebration
Thanks Amelia and Women.Who.Write!
Happy Father’s Day!
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Hey there! How’s it going?
Yesterday was the last day of school. Like you, I’ve been mired in all the end-of-the-year events, shopping for teacher gifts, etc. Plus, I’ve been working on an exciting new project, which I will share with you soon. I didn’t want you to think I had succumbed to a new malady, so I thought I’d better check in! 😉
Here are my 3 favorite posts from this past week.
I came across this on Facebook, from The Breast Cancer Site. It really hit home. Recently, I have experienced a mindshift in my parenting. I’d been reciting mantras, reading affirmations, trying to motivate, inspire, uplift myself — and boost my confidence. I realized my kids needed this too. These are some great tips to help your kids feel good about themselves, gain confidence, security, and courage.
This one comes from Huffington Post Love Matters, by Rachel Macy Stafford. This post reminds us that what we say and how we say it can have a profound impact on our kids. We do get frustrated. Absolutely. No one likes to be yelled at — not even us. We aren’t bad people. Sometimes we make bad choices, and make mistakes, but that doesn’t make us bad people. We have to find ways to turn these incidents into lessons of what not to do, and how to do better. Even something as simple as spilling milk — I know, even when it’s the 100th time — can get our goat. I’ve realized that we need to be positive and use these as teaching moments. We can make they feel awful, or we can teach them that mistakes happen, and remind them they are loved, and they can do better. Sometimes easier said than done, but we all need the reminder sometimes.
Now something just for fun! 😉
This one’s from Scary Mommy. If you don’t subscribe to Scary Mommy, go now and do it! There’s some great stuff there, and some chuckles too. I’m sure we have all felt like this at one time or another. Enjoy!
I’ve had the privilege to have had the essay, “Time to Forgive my Mother” published as part of a Mother’s Day series on the Women.Who.Write blog. I’m thrilled to be in the company of some very talented writers. Hop on over and check it out. Click here.
Yes, you, Mom. I’m talking to you.
You need to make investments in you each and every day. You’re worth it, and you deserve it.
Now, I’m not talking about shopping sprees (you’re welcome, husbands). And I’m not talking about financial stuff. I’ll leave that to the Dave Ramseys of the world. I’m talking about doing things for YOURSELF. Every. Single. Day.
Like all moms, I always put myself last. And I felt awful—physically, emotionally. I wasn’t at my best. This is a tough concept for us moms to comprehend. My holistic health coach Roula at MyHealthySoma showed me how I could make space for it in my life, and why it was so important to my well-being, and that of my family
Right about now, you’re thinking, “There isn’t enough time,” or “It sounds so selfish.” You do have some time each day. And it’s not being selfish. On the contrary, this not only helps you but also helps your family. All these small investments add up to THE BEST YOU EVER. And you know what that means? It makes you a better wife, a better parent, a better daughter, a better friend, etc. Isn’t that worth it?
Here are some ways you can invest in yourself every day:
- Get physical. Feeling sluggish? Can’t get through the day without a double espresso? Your body and mind need exercise to be at their peak. Think you can’t fit it in? Here’s how: Get up a little earlier, go walking or biking. Kill two birds with one stone, and ride your bike or walk to run errands. Bonus: You can shop local and support small businesses. After the kids head off to school, hit the gym. Get it out of the way in the morning so there are no excuses. Take a walk in the evenings after dinner. The whole family can do this together, too. A little every day makes you stronger. The benefits are far-reaching. We’re talking about your health. Exercise goes a long way in stress reduction, too. You’ll get fit, your mind will be clear, and your energy level will soar. Double bonus: You will feel better about you.
- Rethink food. I don’t use the word diet, because the word has been corrupted to mean a deprivation in order to lose weight. We’re talking lifestyle here. Eat healthier, work in organics, and take the time to think about what you’re cooking and eating. Eat more fruits and veggies, add some probiotics, drink more water, skip the sugar and soda. Cook healthier meals. Small changes every day. You and your family will reap the benefits. Bonus: You’ll probably shed a few pounds too. And that always makes us feel good!
- Read. Reading provides an escape from reality, taking you on a journey in your mind. Read books on productivity, something you wish to learn. I like to read while I’m walking on the treadmill, and also before bedtime. No electronics at bedtime! Your mind won’t be able to shut down. So get out that printed book or magazine! Even if you read for 10-15 minutes a day, you do this for you, and invest in your personal growth. Bonus: You feed your brain and keep your mind sharp.
- Have a girls’ night. Yes. That means put on something stylish, some makeup, and get out of the house, away from your family. You need a break. You need adult conversation, and some girl talk. You must maintain your friendships. This rejuvenates you, and sends you home happier, less stressed. Enjoy a cocktail, but don’t go crazy. That’ll become an expense and not an investment. Bonus: You had fun and spent some time nurturing your friendships. We need them.
- Transform your bedtime ritual. While you’re washing your face and brushing your teeth, turn on some soothing music. It will help to get you begin to relax. Maybe you put lotion on your hands and feet, or use essential oils. This is a great time to do it, and wind down. Read, pray, calm your mind. Make a to-do list for tomorrow and get it out of your head. Bonus: This pays you in sleep dividends. Another bonus: Well-rested moms are happier and more accomplished.
- Practice gratitude: Do this every day. I start my day thanking God for giving me another day. After I say my prayers at bedtime, I thank God for all my blessings. It may seem tough when you start, but once you get going, you will be surprised how this flows. You realize you have more blessings that you thought. It gives you perspective. Bonus: You realize you really are rich, in the most meaningful way.
- Start with positive thoughts. After I thank God for allowing me to wake up, I repeat some mantras. I say them for myself and my family. I start with me. It could be something as simple as, “I’m going to have a great day!” or “I’m going to complete my to-do list today!” I check in on my girls as they sleep. I whisper to them, “You’re going to have a great day,” “You’re going to ace the test!” or something like that. Then one for my husband: “You’re going to close that deal today!” or “You’ll make strides toward closing it!” Bonus: You’ve added to everyone’s balance. Another bonus: You set ta positive tone for the day.
- Be an early bird. Whether you use this time to work out, read, plan your day, reflect, write—whatever – this is your time. Everyone is asleep. No one’s calling or you to do something. This is the perfect time to add to your account. Bonus: So much is accomplished in these uninterrupted moments.
- Get a hobby. Is there something you enjoy doing? It’s always fun and enriching to do something creative, and having that outlet makes for a better you. This can be done with the family, too. Bonus: You develop or hone a skill, and have fun. You are enriched.
- Chase a dream. Just because you are a wife and/or a mom, doesn’t mean you have to give up your dreams. Want to be an artist? Writer? Crafter? Want to help people? Do it! You can do this during that uninterrupted time in the morning (or when everyone’s asleep, if you’re a night owl. You know yourself best.) Bonus: A sense of accomplishment, confidence, and enhanced self-worth. Double bonus: You set an example or your kids, about working hard to make dreams come true and achieve goals.
- That’s just a start. Trade a coffee for a cup of decaf tea. Meet a friend for a coffee or lunch. Occasionally DO get a mani/pedi, or a facial or massage. You will feel like a new person. You are worth it! A zillion times bonus: You look good AND feel good.
Small investments in you each day = happy you AND happy family. Remember, you set the tone for your family. They play off you and your attitude. Model happiness and joy for your family. Your investment in you benefits the ENTIRE family. You owe it to yourself – and your family!
How do you invest in you? If you aren’t why not? What can you do today to make your first deposit? Share your thoughts in the comments.
We left and I barely said a word to my friend. We walked to the parking garage, to realize neither of us knew where the car was. We went to 4 different floors, then finally going back up to the 10th floor, site of the original attempt, only to realize it was there, but on the other side. This was pure comedy, certainly funny to anyone who saw us. To us, it was much-needed comic relief, and temporarily lifted the fog. We laughed so hard, I thought I’d bust open my incision. We laughed so much, I wonder if we looked like drunks searching the parking garage for our car? We found it and headed home – in record time. When we arrived at my house, I felt like I couldn’t go home. I felt like I couldn’t face my family. My kids would want to play, talk, and I wasn’t up for it. I wasn’t ready to talk about what just happened to me.
I went inside to find the house empty. Perfect. Once inside, I found roses and a beautiful card from my husband. Sigh. Soon he and the girls arrived. They came barreling inside. “Mommy! Mommy! Are you OK? He told them I went for a test and would likely get a shot. I didn’t want to tell them. I forget they aren’t babies anymore and I have to treat them accordingly. Would knowing some of it be so bad? I told them I was OK, just a little sore. As I rested on the couch, he announced he was taking the girls out so I could have quiet time. I turned on the TV. I was glad to be alone, but hated it at the same time. How did I live alone all those years? The silence was deafening. I watched 4 back-to-back episodes of Seinfeld –something I never do – and stayed on the couch. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t check email. I couldn’t communicate with anyone. I didn’t want to voice the fear that I was feeling. I didn’t want to give it life. I felt like if I did, then it would be real. I stayed in this state of other-world-ness for a while.
The next morning, I went about the regular routine, counting the hours until he doctor called. I tried to stay positive. In just a few hours, my fate would be revealed. Stay busy! I couldn’t go to the gym–no strenuous activity or 48 hours. So I just rested on the couch and read a book. After school, I picked up the girls and took them to dance class. It would start at 4, the expected time of the fateful call. I was glad they wouldn’t be with me. I went to the cafeteria to await the call. I read a book. I checked emails. 4:00. 4:05. 4:07. 4:08. 4:10. When was the call going to come? Deep breath. I’m Ok. Everything’s fine. Pray. Pray. Pray. 4:12. 4:15. 4:16. The phone rang.
“Hello Maria. How are you? Any problems? Any pain?” the doctor asked. “No. I’m OK,” I responded. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. So we got your results and reviewed everything. It came back normal. Everything’s fine! No problems in there. There’s no need for further testing. Have another mammogram next spring. Everything looks great. You’re OK! This is great news! Now exhale, and celebrate!”
I could barely find the words. “Oh yes! Thank you so much!” I immediately texted my husband and a few close friends in the know. Thank you God! My prayers were answered! I was elated, on top of the world. I could breathe. I got another chance. I got the kick in the ass, the push I needed to remind me to stop waiting for things to be perfect. To find the beauty within. To decide to be happy. To always live in gratitude. To stop waiting for a sign to move forward on the road to fulfilling my writing dreams. To stop waiting for permission or approval. This was the time. Now is the time. It’s time.
Has it taken something drastic to give you that push you needed to get started? Have you ever had a scare like this before? Please share in the comments below.
The day after we scheduled the biopsy, I walked around in a funk.
Do I have cancer, again?
I just got the all-clear in January: my vertebral artery dissection was healed. With my last chemo treatment 4 years behind me, and feeling really good, for the first time in nearly 5 years I am healthy. So, why? Why now?
Many thoughts raced through my mind. What about the kids? How would they handle it? Who would make their lunches and help with homework and take them to school? How would my husband handle this? Why can’t I just be healthy? I’d been healthy my entire life, until molar pregnancy ripped the rug out from under me, and caused a chain reaction of maladies that would impact every facet of my life and my family’s. I thought we were past this. So why? Why now?
I called a friend, who’s a nurse. She gave me a dose of tough love.
“It’s going to be fine. It’s probably nothing. I had the same thing happen years ago. It was nothing, and I’m fine. You’re going to be fine too. Stop worrying and get on with it.”
Get on with what? Life? Writing? Planning our summer vacation? All those things I’d put on hold until I had some concrete evidence – cancer or no cancer – because that would change everything.
She offered to accompany me to my appointment, for moral support. At that moment I felt like she was being insensitive. I was in despair; I called for comfort. I didn’t realize this until the next day. I was so grateful for that call. I’m glad she didn’t offer sympathy, or even pity. It was time to get on with life. I got a kick in the ass, and I’m so glad she did it. Why was I sitting around feeling sorry for myself? I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s time to get off my ass and do the things I have been putting off – planning that vacation, launching my website, enjoying my time off with my girls. Enough with the pity party. I prayed. And prayed. To God, to the Virgin Mary, to St. Nectarios (patron saint of cancer patients), to my deceased mother-in-law (who died from cancer nearly 10 years ago), to our angel baby. And then I prayed some more. And then it hit me.
Even if it is cancer, there is no time for feeling sorry for myself. So I went about my life, didn’t think about it, started writing, making plans, “getting on with it.” I also called my friend and told her I would appreciate if she’d accompany me to the appointment. I needed the support.
As the days went on, I reverted to old ways – I have this thing about bothering people and asking them for help. So I spent 2 days trying to convince her not to go with me. Lucky for me, she saw right through it.
Two days before, a mom I knew posted on Facebook. “I was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, and tomorrow I’m having surgery. I demand that you all go get your boobs checked. I had no symptoms. Do it. Don’t wait.” I sent her a private message. I wished her well, and shared my story. She couldn’t believe it. We cheered each other on. That morning, I posted an image of St. Nectarios on Facebook, asking him to pray for her. The prayer chain began. I stalked Facebook the entire day for news about her surgery. Finally, she posted, and she was OK. Thank God! Surgery went well. She would eagerly await my news. I prayed for both of us.
Tuesday. I shopped, cleaned, did laundry, prepared meals. I didn’t want to have to worry about it later, and I didn’t know what would happen next, but I felt better knowing it was done.
My appointment was downtown at 2:00 pm. With traffic and limited parking at the hospital, we left 1-1/2 hours early. My friend is sharp. She told me I had to drive, because she had to leave her SUV for her husband to drive kids around, and she didn’t feel comfortable driving his new car. So I drove, and the conversation was about everything but my impending biopsy. Thank God for her!
We arrived pretty early, parked, and made our way to the hospital. We approached the security desk. “4th floor please,” and the attendant handed us guest badges. “I really hate the 4th floor,” I told my friend. “After today, I’m not coming back. This is my last trip to that damned floor.”
I was starting to get a little nervous, but was able to contain it. We checked in. Within 5 minutes, I was called to Registration and after signing consent forms, I was on my way. It was 1:45 pm. They told me to expect to be there 2-3 hours because they never run on time. Here they were running early. I was glad. To me, it was a good sign. It would save me some trepidation for what was to come, and get me home sooner.
Same routine: Go through the door and wait for the volunteer. Volunteer arrives, gives instructions, takes you to the dressing room, gives you a lovely green gown. Wait! It’s beige with stripes. Woo hoo! I’m liking the diversity. I take it as another good sign. After changing, I go to the waiting room. Quick! Quick! I’d just taken out my Kindle and started reading when they called me. Deep breath.
A nurse took me to a small room to explain the procedure. I asked some questions. Then the radiologist came in. She asked me if I had any further questions. I pulled out my handy list, printed from Cancer.org
“Hey, you’re prepared! I like that!” the doctor said. “I wish more people wrote their questions down, because once they’re here, anxiety takes over, and they forget to ask, or don’t write down responses, and forget what we discussed.” “I know,” I said. I spent a lot of time on the other side of this floor, and I learned quickly that you have to be prepared, and to take notes. “You’re a pro!” she said. “Will there be a scar?” I asked. She took out a pen. “I will make an incision like this,” and she drew a line :__________. “There is a chance for scarring, but more than likely, you will just have a bruise, because any time you break the skin, you will bruise.” Great. I bruise VERY easily. This should look lovely. “The nurse will come to get you in a minute to take you to the ultrasound room.”
There, I had to partially undress, and lie down on the table. Turn onto your left side, let’s put this pillow under you. Raise your arm above your head. Let’s put this rolled up towel under your arm for comfort.
We’ll give you a local anesthetic to numb the area. You will feel some burning. Then we’ll insert the instrument to extract the tissue. You will hear a clicking sound. Let me show you what it looks and sounds like.
The tech proceeded to show me a device that reminded me of those lighters that you hold a button and click and it lights at the end of the wand. Then she demonstrated the clicking. It startled me. She then said she’d go get the nurse and the radiologist and we’d get started. She left the room. I made the sign of the cross and I prayed. And prayed again. I’m Ok. Let’s get on with it. Deep breath.
The trio returned and the doctor advised she’d check the area with the ultrasound wand for accuracy. The screen was positioned so I couldn’t see. Maybe that’s better. I didn’t know what I was looking at anyway. She found the spot. “11 o’clock, 8 cm from the nipple,” she told the nurse, who scribbled some notes. And the doctor drew on the spot with a marker. “We’re ready to go.”
The anesthetic came with a long needle. I tried to block that from my mind. The needle went in – not so bad – but then it felt like she put in a needle with teeth—tiny saw-like teeth cutting away into my breast. It didn’t feel like burning, it felt like cutting. I prayed. Then the tears came streaming down my face; I couldn’t contain it. I was in full cry-mode. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “This won’t take too long.” Again, I thought of my kids. We can’t go through this again. I can’t. What will we do? We can’t do this again. We won’t.
The clicking instrument now bore a long, silver “stick” resembling a flat, thin screwdriver. The radiologist inserted it, there was a beep, the click, and another beep. She’d hand it to the nurse, who’d put the sample on the tray and hand it back. We’d repeat this 4 more times. All the while, the ultrasound tech was monitoring.
Once the tissue extractions were complete, a small titanium marker was implanted at the site. This marker would delineate a point to check carefully in each subsequent mammogram. Steri-strips closed the incision. Then it was time to visit “The Crusher “, again. Yup. They had to verify that the marker was placed correctly and was stable.
Step forward, lean in, turn your head, hold your other breast away. I have to pull this really tight, sorry. Take a deep breath, don’t move. Beep, beep. Ok, let’s do the side view. Sorry it will have to be a little tighter, as tight as I can get it. Lean in, deep breath, now don’t move. Beep, beep.
She checked the images, and we were done. Then she applied some gauze and tape, and advised me to leave it on for 24 hours, then remove it, but keep the Steri-strips in place for 4 days. Guess she didn’t want me to view the wound. They’d call me with results the next day at 4 pm. Go home, rest, no lifting, no exertion, take it easy. Page the doctor if anything unusual happens.
I quickly got dressed and went to meet my friend. I felt like I was walking in a fog. I was in another reality. What was happening to me? Who was I? I’m not a cancer patient! I’m a mom, a wife, a daughter, a friend, a writer. I’ll be damned if I surrender to this bullshit again. I still felt weird, as if I was straddling this world and another, waiting to learn my fate. We walked out the door, and I noticed the clock. 2:45. It took exactly one hour. Why did it feel like 5?
Check back later this week for Part 2.
The next morning I got that message. The one we dread.
I called. “Can you come on Tuesday?” I tried to keep it in perspective, since I was warned that I’d likely get the call. “Tuesday’s 3 days from now,” I thought. Perspective. I set the appointment, telling myself I’m OK.
Over the next few days, I’d remind myself repeatedly, that it was a formality; I’m OK. I even tried visualization: The doctor says, “We had to double check, because we don’t have any comparison images. Everything’s fine. See you next year.”
That morning, my husband and I discussed the day’s events. “Last week was the “Panini Treatment.’ Today, ‘The Crusher!’” I said, in my most sinister sounding voice. I thought he’d laugh, but he gave me a bewildered look. “Glad you’re keeping a sense of humor,” he responded. Do I have a choice?
I got the kids off to school and headed downtown. I approached the women’s hospital and thought, “I really hate this place!” This is the same place I went for my D&C, and chemo. I reminded myself that my younger daughter was born there. I walked inside, and remembered waiting with my husband by the front windows for the tour of the then-new hospital. Smile.
Then there was that familiar feeling: “Here I am again on the damned 4th floor!” I gazed to the right—the cancer center—where I’d spent so much time a few years before. I’m OK. I’m OK.
This time it was a left turn. The sign greeted me: “Diagnostic Mammography/Breast Ultrasound.” Couldn’t miss the big sign on the back wall: Lynn Sage Comprehensive Cancer Center. Deep breath. I’m OK. A volunteer greeted me and showed me the changing room. Ahhh, the lovely green ensemble. This one had a different print. How chic! NOT.
“You brought a book!” the volunteer said. “You’ve been told how things work here.” “No,” I responded. “I spent a lot of time on the other side of this floor. I know how it goes.” She looked puzzled, but then gave me instructions.
I waited with 2 other ladies, all in lovely green gowns with different patterns. No one spoke. We all waited. One lady was called for her test. The other was told she would need an ultrasound for verification. No one made eye contact. Everyone seemed to do their best to keep calm. I opened my book, but then took out my notepad instead. I wrote: We just had to double check, because we don’t have any comparison images. Everything is fine. See you next year for your regular mammogram. I recited the mantra over and over. Everything is fine. It HAS to be.
Then it was my turn. “Microcalcifications,” the tech explained, showing me the original mammogram. “We don’t know why women get them, but usually they’re harmless. Oh, and it has nothing to do with how much calcium you get in your diet.” She also informed me that 1 in 4 women are summoned for further imaging, and of those, 75% are first-timers—meaning it’s the baseline mammogram, and they require additional imaging to see all angles so they have images to compare in the future, and also to get a closer look at anything suspicious. Both breasts were to be imaged, because both had these pesky, tiny “white” calcium spots. Again, I’m one of the “Chosen Few.” I’ve already been one, twice already. Enough.
Disrobe. Approach the torture machine. Be twisted, flattened (even more so than the last time).
I think she took four images on each side. She interchanged different pieces of the machine, then mushed and crushed, and basically put my breasts in a vice. “The Crusher” for sure.
Deep breath, hold it and don’t move. OK. Step back. Now come straight in, hold the other breast away, lean in, sorry I have to make this really tight…
The images would be viewed by the radiologist, and then they’d discuss them with me. I would leave with results! I was escorted back to the waiting room. Woman #1 was back, and was soon called to be told she needed ultrasound. A new woman was in there waiting. Was it the same routine for all?
Twenty minutes later, a new tech came, calling my name. “Come with me. We’re going for ultrasound.” She showed me the images, and told me they needed a closer look at several areas. As I lay on the table, arm behind my head, all I could think of, was “I hope my pits don’t stink too bad!” No deodorant is allowed day, as on the imaging, it can resemble something daunting.
I watched the screen. I was curious. I’d watched all the ultrasounds I had with my pregnancies – even the molar pregnancy. But these images were foreign. She clicked, measured, moved around. I don’t know how to read all the abbreviations on the screen, but it sure added to my anxiety level. At one point, I thought I saw a face, formed by things in the scan. I’ve seen this face before — in the ultrasound where we first suspected the molar pregnancy. I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me.
“The radiologist is waiting. Just stay here and try to relax. Likely, she’ll want to come and double check.” A few minutes later, the tech and the radiologist entered the room. “The microcalcifications are nothing to be concerned about,” the radiologist said, and gave me the “baseline speech.” Phew! I’m in the clear!
Not so fast!
“This is the area that I wanted another set of eyes,” the tech said, pointing to the right side of my right breast. Using the ultrasound wand, the radiologist scanned. I didn’t know what she was looking for, as she click-clicked to capture images and measure things.
Then the other shoe dropped.
“It may likely be just an unusual convergence of the ducts, but something looks suspicious. I can’t really tell by the ultrasound. You have two options: scan again in 6 months, which I don’t recommend, or biopsy,” the radiologist explained.
Are you kidding me?
“It may be nothing. The only way we’ll know is to check. It’s small. We need to know what’s in there, and we can’t wait. Let’s do a biopsy.”
“Now?!” I murmured, trying not to freak out.
“We can’t do it today. Our scheduler will schedule it for the next few days. Let’s not wait.”
I walked the long hallway back to the changing room. It felt like the last mile. What just happened here? This can’t be happening. Slightly numb and feeling sick to my stomach, I changed and waited for the scheduler.
She wanted me to come back tomorrow. No-can-do. “OK, come back Tuesday at 2 pm. Arrive at 1:45, and plan to stay 2-3 hours. We never run on time.”
I have to wait a week until the biopsy. One week of all kinds of things running through my mind. One week of agonizing over the possibility of throwing my kids’ lives into chaos – again. As I drove home, I prayed. I asked God. “Am I missing something?” “Am I not grateful enough?” “Am I not doing something fast enough, and you’re trying to light a fire under me?” There’s a reason here. I just kept thinking about my kids—I don’t want them to suffer through another malady.
Now, I wonder: For a baseline, why aren’t women brought in for the full gamut of images from the start, instead of scaring the beejeezus out them by summoning them for further imaging? That would make sense, but nothing makes sense in the world of medicine and insurance.
Have you ever been summoned for further testing? Have you ever had to ponder the what-ifs of a life-changing or threatening illness? How did you react? Have you ever had a biopsy that showed everything was fine? Do share in the comments below.