A Shout of Joy

Go tell it on the mountain over the hills and everywhere

Written by Norah L. Henry, MD, on 9/20/2018 2:30 PM

     Your mammogram looks good. Here is the report for your records. Please let me know if you have any questions.

HISTORY:

             81-year-old (even though I’ll be 82 in less than two weeks. Let’s not exaggerate) female presents for post lumpectomy follow-up. The patient is taking Arimidex, has a history of prior breast surgery, has a history of breast cancer.

FINDINGS:

             Right Breast Findings:

             There are scattered areas of fibroglandular density. The patient has had a previous lumpectomy with the expected post surgical appearance. No significant masses, calcifications or other abnormalities are seen.

             Left Breast Findings:

             There are scattered areas of fibroglandular density. There are no suspicious masses, calcifications, or areas of architectural distortion. 

I casually mentioned to Dr. Henry

that I had not slept the night before

my appointment with her.

She made my appointment for the mammogram

on a Thursday, the only day the radiologist is in,

so I could get my results right away.

What man would think of that?

My appointment was for 1 PM.

I got there about 10 minutes early.

They took me right in and I was through by 1:15,

knowing the results.

She sent me a written report by 2:30 PM.

She also changed it from the Huntsman Cancer Center

in Salt Lake to the one in Farmington,

five minutes away instead of an hour away,

which would have been an all-day event.

When I got home,

in my mind

I danced a jig!

Happy 62nd to Us

Guess who else is an antique born in 1936?

Who’s the Smart One?

Sometimes

I think

my sister, Verla,

has the right idea.

She rarely takes pictures;

she keeps no journal or history;

she doesn’t raise a garden anymore.

She could clean her freezer in half an hour.

When she’s through with something,

she gives it away.

She’s never stored useless stuff.

Eddy is still wearing some of the shirts

she gave him when her boys quit wearing them.

I put things in boxes and store them in the basement

in case we or someone yet to be born

might need them someday.

I have a toy museum.

I have shelves and shelves of photo books

and histories, journals and writings

that no one looks at or reads.

Four full deep freezers –

the big one taking me all day to clean out.

Cases and cases of bottled fruit and vegetables

besides all the groceries DeRay buys in bulk.

We spend endless hours in the garden.

And on and on and on and on.

WHY?

We All Grow Old if we live long enough

Whenever I hobble around outside, especially in the garden with my stiff sore knees and balance issues, I invariably think of Jennie Brown, my mother’s bosom childhood friend. Jennie was actually Mama’s niece, the oldest daughter of her oldest brother, Charles, while Mama was the youngest child in her family.

Jennie and Amy in their white 8th grade graduation dresses,
hand-made  by Aunt Esther Johnson (Mama's sister)
of white voile trimmed with lace.

When we went out to Moccasin for our reunion on October 2, 1993, the night before, Verla, Lynn, and I walked up to Jennie and Ren Brown’s home.

Jeanette, Ren and Jennie Brown 1993

           We wanted her to identify everyone in a picture of Grandpa Heaton, his two wives, children and grandchildren that appeared on the cover of Sunstone magazine without identification. Later someone replied to an inquiry that it was the family of Alvin F. Heaton.

A couple of years before, on a trip to Orderville, we encountered Irene Heaton Baird in the Orderville grocery store, then in her ninety-second year.  She is Grandpa’s oldest grandchild.  My sister, Verla Esplin Galloway, is one of his youngest grandchildren and was forty-two at the time—a fifty year time span.  I sent the picture of Irene and Verla to Sunstone where the family had been incorrectly identified telling them that I recognized many of the people in the picture, including my own mother.  I received a call from the Church History Department.  They told me that in Joseph Fielding Smith’s own handwriting, the family was identified as Alvin F. Heaton and family, Moccasin Springs, Ariz June 1^st 1907.  (They sent me copies to prove it.)

“I recognize my uncles and aunts,” I told the historian on the phone.  “I believe you,” he said.  “Would you mind identifying everyone in the photo and labeling it and sending it back to us?”  “Sure,” I said,  “it might take me a year.” 

By porch light on that warm October night in Moccasin, Jennie Heaton Brown positively identified every single person in the picture.  I send the information to the Church History Department getting that little issue straightened out.

On that night, Jennie talked about our mother:

Your mother was born first.

Her hair was naturally curly;

I had to have mine rolled up in rags.

Her eyes were brown;

Mine were blue.

She could run faster;

She could swim further;

She could stay under water longer;

She could dive deeper;

She could hike longer;

She was married first;

She had one more child;

And one more husband.

“Well, life isn’t over,” we jest, “you may still catch up.”

“Oh, ho, ho,” Ren, her husband, who had been silent all evening, interjected, “you should see her hobble around the yard.  She couldn’t catch anyone.”

And that’s why I inevitably think of Jennie as I hobble around outside.

Jennie didn’t mention this,

but Mama also died first.

Mama died at age 73 (1977).

When we visited with Jennie

she would have been in her 90^th year

(born 15 August 1904.

Jennie died in 1995

and her husband, Ren, died in 1999.)

Mama’s kids at her beloved Moccasin.

Only Jerry is missing.

He was probably deer hunting in Idaho.

My Sisters, my Daughter, and Me

Overnight Respite

from Canning, Cleaning, Cooking

The Apple doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree

     Ed comes in from his trike ride and somehow knocks a glass of water off the table.

     “Damn Booby Trap,” he growls as he stomps off. (Before I made him come back and mop it up.)

     That’s what DeRay says every time he has an accident, even if it’s his fault.

     “Your room’s a bit messy,” I chide later in the afternoon.

     “Like father like son,” he quips.

The Gift

Nearly every day I turn the light on in the closets

and just admire the organization and empty space.

 

I like to open the freezer door and see frost-free organized shelves.

 I peek in the fruit rooms and marvel at the change

 and the stair pantry.

It gives me great satisfaction.

I think it might be the same sense of gratification

a great author feels when she reads her own book,

or an artist when she looks at her masterpiece

or a composer or musician when he listens to his own music.

Is there a yearning within each of us to do something great?

So what if it’s only dejunking and organizing.

I’m delighted with my Work.