The Post that wasn't.

Hi. It's been a while. I know. Sorry.

I have had a bit of writer's block. Nothing funny has really been happening, and I'm kind of just doing my thing. Then something kind of big happened and I was upset and freaked out and worried but I didn't write about it because I was afraid. Then it didn't. And it was all sort of a fizzle and then I didn't know what to write. And now I feel sort of stuck.

So here it is. I'll just tell you, get it off my chest, and then I can go back to writing about how teething sucks (it really, really does), Rowan's baptism and the brunch we're having (this weekend), my sister and BIL's visit, and our Vermont trip for the BlumingWhiteSacks' wedding and to see my cousin and her family.

OK. So. I was in the shower on a Sunday morning, getting ready for church, and I felt a lump. Under my arm in the boob region. And it hurt. A lot.

Of course, it was Memorial Day weekend. No doc until Tuesday. And I got scared.

All the scenarios ran through my head. Dr. B couldn't really understand why I was so upset. "It's probably nothing," he said.

But all I could think was, "she won't remember me."

(I know, I know. Total overreaction.)

"Why do you do this? Why do you think about any possible bad thing that could happen? What good does it do?" he asked.

"I have to. I've been trained to. Mom. She trained me to think about it so if it ever happened, I'd be prepared," I answered. "And I was. When she died, I was the one who knew. Where she wanted to be buried, her favorite hymns, where the funeral should be, even the type of flowers to order. I didn't have to think." Yes, I am a bit of a doomsdayer, and superstitious, to boot. I won't wash our sheets, even if they really need it, when he's out of town. I know it's dumb. I also save his voicemails until he gets home. I don't talk about it, but it goes through my head. What I'd do, if I had to.

And so, I went to the doctor Tuesday morning, fully prepared to be told to have a mammogram, to get an awful diagnosis, to lose my hair from chemo, and on and on and on.

But, it's just a plugged duct. A few hot showers, some massage, an angle change and a very aggressive session with the breast pump, and I'm fine.

And thankful. For the teething, which does suck big time, but I am glad I'm here to be with her when she needs me. For the poopy diapers and the turds that fall on my bare foot. For the Cheerios in my sheets, the plastic toys I step on, the banana chunks on the floor, and the Cheezit crumbs at the bottom of my purse.

It's all worth it. And I want every minute.