A walking contradiction at a stoplight

I don't know how many of you know this, but Katy Perry wrote the song "Hot and Cold" for me and my life. But she shortened some of the lyrics to make it flow better musically. And I agreed because she's the musician; I'm just the inspiration for the song. It could be a true story.

"You change your mind / Like a girl changes clothes." If the line were actually, "You change your mind like a girl changes clothes as she's trying to decide what to wear for a first date with a guy she's been persuing who FINALLY said yes," then bingo. I could be in the middle of a sentence - like ordering from a menu at a restaurant - and change my mind as I'm saying, "I'll have the pepperoni pizza, well done with a... no wait, let's go with the Greek pizza with a side of oh hey the Hawaiian pizza looks good; I'll have that."

"And you / Overthink" was shortened from the original line "And you / Overthink to the point that the wheels in your mind are on a spin machine powered by solar power and located directly on the sun's surface." It doesn't stop. It's why I change my mind at the restaurant - I overthink my choice. It can't be just what I'm in the mood for; it has to be which comes with the best sides, that I haven't eaten in awhile and is reasonably priced that pairs the best with what I chose to drink, which I decided on while not thinking of what I was going to order. Ironically, I get in trouble for not thinking as well. I just think it's because there's too much crammed into my head at once swirling around as if in an endless tornado that never ended up dropping Dorothy in Oz.

The lines "Cause your hot then you're cold / You're yes then you're no / You're in and you're out / You're up and you're down / You're wrong when it's right / It's black and it's white / We fight, we break up / We kiss, we make up" pretty much stayed the same because how else can you explain a walking contradiction (except in the song "Walking Contradiction" by Green Day)?

One minute I feel so strongly about something - like I really truly feel it and have myself convinced that it's absolutely, positively, and without a doubt right. And shortly thereafter, I have myself convinced just as much if not more about the exact opposite. This unfortunately applies mostly to big decisions, which makes it nearly impossible to make any because I'm constantly second-guessing myself. I just can't seem to be able to make a big decision and stick to it.

"Someone call the doctor / Got a case of a love bi-polar / Stuck on a roller coaster / Can't get off this ride." I have come to realize how stupid it is when people compare their lives to a roller coaster - meaning life's ups and downs - and hate that I've actually used this cliche myself in the past. First of all, the "up" parts of a roller coaster are just something to make you anticipate what's to come: the way more fun "down" part. Nobody thinks the downs in life are better than the ups, and I can't speak for anyone else, but I enjoy pretty much the whole ride when I'm on an actual roller coaster.

Therefore, while the beginning of the line absolutely did not change one bit because nothing is more accurate than saying I have a case of a love bi-polar, the original line ended with "Was on this roller coaster / But was forced to get off the way fun ride."

If only life could be a roller coaster. Then, first of all, it'd be on a set course with no chance of diverting onto another one. Sure, there would be some snags along the way - the levers might jam or you might get stuck and at a dead stop once in awhile - but at least you'd know where it was going at all times. I'd choose a roller coaster's ups and downs before I'd choose the ones that come with life. Too many unknowns, unanswered questions, and important decisions that I can make but can't.

I'm a walking contradiction at a stoplight. Awesome.

Don't laugh at me; I'm so not used to this, and hope I never will be

I've been very fortunate in my life when it comes to my health. Sure, I've caught my fair share of bugs (take this week for example!) but overall, I'm a very healthy 27-year-old woman.


In fact, when Brent and I were going through the medical testing required for our life insurance policies, I was placed into the top health bracket.


And when my doctor suggested I go through a barrage of tests earlier this year as part of a regular check-up, which I've neglected for years, he said everything was "perfectly on point."


"Oh come on," I replied. "There must be SOMETHING that's a little high or a little low..."


"Actually, no," he said, showing me three pages of numbers all within the normal range for cholesterol, blood pressure, pulse rate, etc. "You're a very healthy young lady."


So even though my husband took one look at my face while I was lying on the gurney waiting for my surgery to remove a tumor in my breast yesterday and laughed, I'm not going to apologize for shedding a few nervous tears. While I very much appreciated his jokes and successful attempts to keep things light the day of my surgery, this isn't something I've experienced before, much less am used to.

When it comes to my health, surgery to remove a tumor is by far the most extreme medical procedure I've had to face. Heck, it's the ONLY medical procedure I've had to face in an operating room.

And let me tell you, I think the most terrified I've ever been is in the few seconds it took me to walk from the gurney outside the operating room to lie on the table inside the operating room. Two of my favorite TV shots are Grey's Anatomy and House, and before those shows premiered I spent many hours watching ER. But none of that prepared me for what an actual operating room looks like.

What first hit me was how BRIGHT it was. I felt like I was lying underneath a floodlight, which is good because the doctors should probably be able to see exactly what they're doing. And there were all kinds of unfamiliar, gleaming metal machines with lights covering every inch of that tiny room.

On one hand, I was kinda hoping they were going to treat me like a child at the dentist by showing me all the scary-looking tools and explaining what they were going to do with them, and that it wasn't going to hurt (mostly because I'd be knocked out).

But that thought lasted an extremely fleeting second when I glanced at the nearby scalpel and started panicking just a little bit with thoughts of it slicing through my skin and the doctor going inside my body and a mass coming out.

That's when my thoughts quickly shifted toward the maybe-it'd-be-better-if-I-have-no-idea-what's-going-on-and-just-wake-up-when-it's-over camp. Thankfully, that's what happened.

The anesthesiologist assistant, Mike, who had explained local anesthesia to me while I was not-so-bravely trying not to cry, noticed that I had not quit freaking out and said to my surgeon, "I'm going to give her something to relax a little bit." And probably seconds later, I remember a mask being put over my nose and mouth. I didn't count to 10 or name as many presidents as I could; apparently I was just out in a matter of seconds.

Sometime after that, I responded "yes, I'm OK" to Mike asking if I was OK, and then all I remember is groping for his hand to murmur a "thank you" for how nice he was to me and annoyance that people kept waking me up when all I wanted to do was sleep. Apparently that was when I was in recovery, although it is unnerving that I don't remember very much of that hour in recovery or exactly how I got off the operating table and into recovery (Mike had told me before the surgery that the local anesthesia has an amnesic effect.)

That doesn't sit well with me. Apart from the reason that I never drink to the point where I might get sick because I can't stand the thought of puking, it absolutely terrifies me that drinking too much could lead to not remembering events that happened. I hear my friends say stuff like, "I remember the band's last set at 11, and then I don't remember anything after that; how did I get home again?" and shudder at the thought of not remembering a conversation much less how I (hopefully) safely got home. I like being conscious and knowing what's going on around me at all times, so it's pretty unsettling that I'm not sure how I was moved from one area of the hospital to another.

But there's really no reason to worry. My doctor was kind and "the best there is," according to one of my many nurses - including one who very gently tried to distract me while I was nervously waiting to be taken back. And Mike reassured me countless times - plus he had the drugs - so I was grateful he was with me the entire time.

After eating some dry Saltine Crackers and sipping some apple juice, my mom and husband walked me home and I crashed for four hours. I ate a small bowl of the stew my mom made me later on that evening, but felt more in the mood to pop my pain meds and be a couch potato. Forced relaxation is the only type I get these days, and I was grateful for it. That and TWO people to wait on me hand and foot. Love you mom and B!

Do I really want to hear, "Hmm. This may be more difficult than I thought" after being cut open?

"Soooooo after sleeping on it a few days, I've decided to go ahead with the surgery. What happens now?" I ask the breast surgeon who said he'd support me if I decided to remove the tumor in my breast.

"Well, we schedule the surgery," he says matter-of-factly. "What does your schedule look like?"

"Um, well, my mom is coming to town in early May, so can we schedule it then?" I ask like I'm a juvenile instead of a grown woman.

"Sure. How should I schedule it?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" I reply. I have no idea what he's talking about. I have never had anyone cut open my body before - I've done that just fine on my own - and am nervous as hell allowing this man I just met to come near me with a scalpel.

"Do you want to be awake or sedated?" he asks me.

This is right about at the point where I begin to wonder if complications from going under anesthesia outweigh the fact that if I decide to stay awake, I will be able to hear everything that's going on while the doctor will be using tools inside my body.

So I ask him what he recommends, and he said it pretty much depends on a person's personality. Some people choose to be awake so they can go home quicker and some don't even want to know what's going out, so they choose a deep sedation so they're asleep the entire time.

I like the idea of staying awake so I will be aware of everything in case there's any problems, but don't think I'd be able to handle it if any complications arose. I'm absolutely terrified, but like being as in control of any given situation as the situation allows.

But because he needs to know whether to schedule an anesthesiologist for my surgery, I told him to do so because I can always change my mind and tell said anesthesiologist not to sedate me.

"Are you crazy?" asked my husband when I told him that I was thinking of asking the doctor to stay awake during the procedure. "You are going under. There's no way you should stay awake and worry more than you're already going to worry. Just get there, go to sleep, and when you wake up, it will all be over."

It will all be over. Can't wait for that day. Sounds like a plan to me.

To cut or not to cut... that's the question

"Erika? Hi, nice to meet you. Now let me see your breasts."

OK, so he didn't actually use those words, but I was still rather uncomfortable with the thought that the breast surgeon who was going to walk through the door - whom I had never met before - was going to want to see me topless.

I know, I know: He does these kinds of things on a daily basis, but before moving to New York, I had never, ever had a male primary doctor or gynecologist. I just feel more comfortable with women because I think they can better relate to what I'm going through - especially with female matters.

Lucky for me, the doctor who walked through the door was a lanky, balding man with friendly blue eyes and a nice smile. He spoke softly, but confidently and looked me right in the eye as he answered all of my questions - even the ones I didn't think to ask - and even drew pictures to illustrate what he was explaining when I didn't fully understand.

For this, I was grateful, because after he patiently sat and answered all my questions, he left the decision in my hands. What I have to do now is decide whether to have surgery to remove the tumor in my breast.

Long story short, I found a lump in my breast in May, 2009, and went through a biopsy that confirmed it was benign. But because it has recently been causing some brief bouts of pain, my gynecologist suggested I see a specialist. So here I am trying to figure out whether I should go through with surgery.

If I don't, the tumor could get bigger, but the doctor said it's not cancerous and it isn't causing any harm except potentially the discomfort I've been experiencing. He said he'd support my decision to not go through with surgery, as it's smaller than the tumors that he normally recommends be removed.

On the other hand, do I really want to have surgery when it's not completely necessary? Do I want to be sedated and have something removed from my body that, while it's not supposed to be there, is not really hurting anything making camp near the bottom of my armpit? Do I want to have yet another scar from stitches to join the ones in my thumb and the ones in my eyebrow from getting hit in the head with a croquet mallet when I was 5 years old? The answer to all of these questions: Not really.

My doctor was helpful in the fact that he said he would support my decision either way, but not so helpful in that he didn't give me a clear-cut direction on which way to go. My mom was the same way, but my husband was absolutely adamant that it's something I should do. His feeling is you should be proactive and take care of things like this before they change or get worse.

Though it makes me nervous, I think I agree.

To the woman in the white hat with the cane: Thank you for being brave enough to say what we were all thinking

"Shut up... Shut UP... WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP!?!?"


Eh, what I heard on the 86th Street crosstown bus tonight wasn't anything unusual in New York City. People are bound to get annoyed at constantly being around other humans in such close quarters. But what soon followed made my stomach lurch, and brought tears to my eyes.


I started to hear a child cry, then someone standing in the aisle of the bus shifted and I was able to turn my head to my left and clearly see that the probably early-20s-year-old woman was screaming "Shut up" to her son, who looked to be about 5 years old.


It only got worse from there.


As children often do, the child made the "mistake" of taking an innocent swing at his mom, who was bending forward from her seat on the bus to get her face closer to his and pacify him by screaming "SHUT UP."


In response, she HIT. HIM. BACK. Nevermind that this display of child abuse was on a public bus, SHE REPEATEDLY slap-hit her child over and over while telling him to "shut up, just shut the f*uck up! You stupid! SHUT UP!"


I could see people taking note of the situation, and saw plenty of raised eyebrows, but no one, including me, said anything. I don't know what everyone else was thinking, but I can tell you what I was thinking: If this woman is pissed off and perfectly fine hitting a defenseless child, what the hell would she do to me if I said something and put myself right smack in her business? Though I can be honest with myself and say that I was caught up in self preservation, that in no way excuses my doing nothing. That said, I can't see this intense weight of shame going away anytime soon.


By this point, the bus had slowed down to Lexington Avenue, and this person got up, yanked up her kid up out of his seat and gave him a sharp shove forward by the back of his head.


That was enough for the woman wearing a white knit cap and carrying a cane sitting across from me in the front of the bus to say what we were all thinking.


"Please stop hitting that child," she said softly, but firmly, which - no surprise - unleashes a spout of profanities from this woman, including "don't stick your f*cking nose in my business. That's MY child, bitch" and the even more shocking "Did you see he f*cking hit me first."


Ummm... where do you think that child got the idea that hitting was OK? And what may be even worse - what if he grows up and still thinks hitting is OK? Will he in turn hit his child? His wife?

After the horrible woman made an even bigger scene yelling at the woman in the white hat who was brave enough to stand up for that child - screaming profanities all the way down the steps of the bus - I caught the eye of that woman across from me and we exchanged a raised-eyebrow look. Though I am ashamed to admit that I didn't have the courage to stand up for that child, I definitely wanted to make sure that her bravery was acknowledged, so I thanked the woman in the white hat.

Then, silently to myself, I thanked God that there are people like her and continued to pray that that child will be OK and will grow up to be nothing like his mother.

Didn't I go through enough six months ago?

Though it had been nearly 45 minutes of waiting at the doctor's office until I was actual lying on the exam table, I felt like I had been holding my breath the entire time while admittedly negative thoughts kept swirling around in my mind.

Did it get bigger?
Has it become malignant?
What if things aren't OK this time?

I was, of course, thinking the worst about the lump I found in my breast back in May, which I now know is a tumor. It turned out to be a benign tumor, but it's a tumor nonetheless. After a biopsy and a horrific several-days wait to find out that it's benign six months ago, here I am again revisiting this small, but still scary, mass that has somehow formed on the side of my breast under my armpit and the doctors can't tell me why. All they know is that it should be monitored twice a year to make sure nothing has changed.

While the technician gave me yet another breast ultrasound, I actually did hold my breath while gently tugging at my hair to hold back the tears because I was absolutely terrified that things might not work out so well this time. Luckily, that was not the case. The lump has changed neither changed in size nor location, and is not bothering me. So I'm fine for now, thank God. Hopefully the news is just as good in six months.

Not willing to decide if he's guilty beyond a reasonable doubt

I've been registered to vote ever since I was 18 (although my votes in the 2000 and the 2004 elections didn't help my presidential candidate win at all).

And ever since then, I've been secretly hoping to be chosen for jury duty.

I've always had a fascination with the legal system, and even tossed around the idea of possibly becoming a lawyer ever since I elected to appear in front of a judge to dispute a speeding ticket, lack of auto insurance, and failure to wear a seat belt stemming from an incident in which I was pulled over by a police officer when I was 17 years old. (I won the latter two charges using the officers' testimony against him... plus proof that I actually did have auto insurance. Erika: 2; Officer: 1.)

So imagine my surprise at never being called for jury duty when I lived in a city of 300,000 for nearly 4 years, but being called to serve as a juror not even two years after moving to a city of 8 million.

But I was actually excited to take the day off of work (even though it didn't really look good at already needing a day off after not even being at my current job for two months yet) and check out the big, six-column judicial building adjacent to (weirdly enough) Chinatown.

As I mentioned before, I've been in court before. Not counting all the times I was there as a spectator while a reporter at The Blade, I've been involved in courtroom proceedings just twice. The first time was to dispute the speeding ticket and other charges, and the second time was two years later while testifying against a man who robbed me outside my then-boyfriend's apartment building.

Both of the times I was involved in court proceedings, I expected to be questioned, and - although terrifying in the latter case, as I was mere feet away from the man who robbed me, and my testimony ultimately sent him to jail for five years - was somewhat prepared for it.

Nothing, however, prepared me for the proverbial bright light I sat under while being grilled as a potential juror. They wanted to know my full name, where I lived in the city, how long I'd lived there, where I lived before moving to the city, what I did for a living, if I was married or had children, what my husband did for a living, my religious views, the types of shows I watched on TV (seriously), whether I'd been the victim of a crime, if I personally knew anyone in law enforcement, and whether I'd served on a jury before.

And I was answering those questions mere feet away from a man accused of first-degree murder.

Talk about nerve-wracking.

I was one of 80 potential jurors whose name was chosen lottery-style out of a group of 160 to be questioned for this case, which the judge said one the actual trial began, would most likely be over in about three weeks. Luckily, I was in the second group of jurors to be questioned, so I had two hours' worth of time - plus an hour lunch break - to think about how I would answer all of the lawyers' questions. Don't get me wrong - I was going to answer every single one truthfully, but there were some questions that some jurors were asked that made me think twice about what I would say if I were asked the same one. Like what would I say if one of the lawyers asked me if I could set aside my feelings for someone accused of wrongdoing having been the victim of a crime myself when I was just a teenager? (My answer? I honestly don't know. And I said as much to the lawyer who asked me that who thanked me for my honesty, as they did for everyone who found it difficult to admit situations in their past that might affect the way they'd view the case.)

Though I was uncomfortable answering these questions, I felt worse for the people who had children who had to disclose their ages and area of the city in which they attended school. Not only was this in front of the man on trial, but this was also in front of three of his friends/family members, who sat whispering in the last row of the courtroom. (Before I was called to sit in the jury box for questioning, I was sitting directly in front of them and heard everything they had to say about the potential jurors who were questioned before me. It was mostly about whether they thought each person would get him off the hook or not.)

Also, some people were victims of a crime, like domestic violence or rape, and had to admit that in front of a courtroom of strangers. Though I was visibly nervous - and my shaky voice into the microphone no doubt gave that away - I was lucky that most of my answers turned out to be relatively straightforward. Except when I started rattling off my jobs and work schedule and the judge had to interrupt me saying I was a coffee shop supervisor, an editor at a magazine, and a freelance writer to say, "Wait, wait a minute. You have THREE jobs?" to which my reply was a shrug and a lame, "Manhattan's expensive."


After my questioning was over, and I was half-listening to the other jurors give the answers to the questions I'd spent more than four hours hearing answers to, I found myself more fervently silently wishing over and over that my name not be called to serve - not because I wasn't willing to fulfill my call to duty nor because it would last an exhausting three weeks, but because I found myself simply not willing to hold the future of another human being's life in my hand on the basis of one or two words: guilty or not guilty. I may have been uneasy answering some of those tough questions, but my unease was heightened tenfold when it became closer and closer to the moment where I would hear whether or not I'd be one of 12 who could potentially ruin this young man's life (he looked to be about 20 years old) by putting him behind bars for God knows how long.


And I'm not God. And I wasn't there on Broadway Street when another young man was gunned down by the person who may or may not have been sitting right in front of my face. The lawyers could have shown me the gun, the fingerprints, blood spatter, and other evidence, but would I REALLY have known whether this man did it beyond reasonable doubt? It's a responsibility - a control - I was absolutely not willing to be forced to hold.

So needless to say, I was more than a little relieved when my name was not called to serve as a juror - a relief that was short-lived when shortly thereafter, I was told I would have to return to the courtroom to serve again the very next day. Thankfully, due to a lack of cases requiring jurors, I was quickly dismissed with a piece of paper stating that I had fulfilled my duty for at least eight years.

Eight blissful years. Jury duty may have seemed glamorous, but now that I've gone through it, the responsibility is anything but alluring.

One of my scariest scenarios ever does have a happy ending, thank God

Before these last two weeks, I had a bit of working knowledge about the seven stages of grief - mainly from an episode of The Simpsons when Homer ate what he thought was the poison portion of a blow fish and went through all seven stages in a hilarious seven seconds - but never had them directly apply to me. That changed on May 7, when I found a lump in my breast . Though my story concludes with a happy ending, this account in no way is meant to diminish the horrible news that could have been that other people have to deal with every day.

I wish I would have been able to blog about this issue as it was going on, but I honestly didn't want anyone - including myself - to deal with it or worry unnecessarily. So I'm posting it now in retrospect in this admittedly too-long post.


Thinking back these past two weeks, of course my first reaction was shock and denial (phase 1). I told myself that this wasn't a lump - it was something that felt lumpy, but was totally normal because there obviously was something just like it on my other breast in the exact same place, right? Nope.


But after confirming to myself that this was so not normal -with help from my mom - the only pain and guilt (phase 2) I felt was pain - physical pain because I was messing with it by constantly checking to see if maybe I had been mistaken and maybe it was just some weird thing that went away on its own. Nope.


And though I think I skipped anger and bargaining (phase 3) I most definitely spent a chunk of time on phase 4: depression, reflection, and loneliness.


And I can pinpoint the exact moment phase 4 punched me in the face.


It was during my appointment at West Side Radiology - an appointment I made after my OB-GYN confirmed just a few days prior that I did have a lump and should get it checked out. When I met with my OB-GYN, she said the doctor at my follow-up appointment would use ultrasound equipment to take a breast ultrasound to see if the lump was something harmless, like an enlarged node or something that could potentially be more serious, like a tumor.


After what seemed like eons later (which in reality was two days) I finally went to my follow-up appointment to hopefully get good news. It wasn't. And I knew that it wasn't OK when the nurse who did the ultrasound came back with the doctor, who did the ultrasound again, and told me that yes, it was a mass.


"What does that mean? It's a tumor?" I remember asking in a voice that seemed to be too small to be my own because while I was lying on the table with one arm over my head, I was also tugging at my hair in an attempt to distract myself from the tears that threatened to spill out in front of the doctor and nurse.


"Yes. It's a tumor," he said, then proceeded to tell me that it's most likely benign, and not the scary malignant, because of my age, and gave me all kinds of hopeful scenarios that would most likely play out after he did a biopsy of the lump.


Though that was supposed to be good news, all I focused on as a trudged home looking at my tennis shoes the entire way were the words "most likely." Though a few tears slipped out here and there, I waited until I got home until I let out a full-on hyperventilating cry that both surprised and frightened me. Those who know me well know that when given a potential situation, I always prepare for the worst. In this case, I was preparing myself for the highly unlikely scenario that the doctor would tell me I had X number of months to live.


Because of the time frame, I had very little time for the upward turn (phase 5) and reconstruction and working through (phase 6) because honestly during the past two weeks, I tried my hardest to ignore it. To forget about it. I didn't want to worry about it unless there was something to worry about. Brent made that quite hard, as he wanted me to research the possibilities and educate myself so I could ask the doctor educated questions, which I agreed was a good idea, but I just didn't want to deal with it.


But I did it anyway, and actually did feel a little better because most signs pointed to something that wasn't breast cancer. But I couldn't be sure until the doctor performed a biopsy. The afternoon of the minor surgery, Brent of course came with me to my appointment, and his presence meant everything. But it wasn't until he was told he couldn't come with me to the procedure that I got scared. But my nurse was amazing, made sure I understood everything that was going to happen, and reassured me over and over before it began.


It didn't really hurt, as I was lying on my left side and the area was numbed so the doctor could put in a big needle to thread a smaller needle through. I was OK right up to the point where he made the incision - which I couldn't feel. What I did feel, though, was the blood trickle down my back. That's when I started to cry, and was glad that I was facing a wall away from the doctor. What didn't help when he let out a very guttural, "Hmmmm."


Hmmmmm!?!?!


"Is everything OK?" I managed to ask him.


"Yes, it's just that the tumor is in a very difficult place behind a lot of tissue," he replied.


Great.


Nonetheless, he got two samples, and because it then began to really hurt, he stopped and said he got what he needed. After gingerly getting dressed, Brent walked me home with my care papers and I fully expected him to get me set at home and go back to work. But he pleasantly surprised me with news that he wasn't going to go back to work and was instead going to spend the rest of the day changing my ice packs, making me meals, helping me take my bath, and all-around being the best husband ever.


Even though I fully expected the results not to be available until after the long Memorial Day weekend (they were supposed to take 3 to 10 business days to come back) I called two days later, on a Thursday, in the hope that I would be able to have them on Friday. When I called the doctor's office, I got a receptionist, and explained what I was looking for. After a brief pause, she came back with, "Your results are on the doctor's desk."

"Sooooooo, can I have them then?" I asked.


"The doctor will call you. She always calls patients with test results," the receptionist said.


"I'm sure she does, but since I'm really nervous at this point and since I'll be going out of town tomorrow, can I have them now?" I asked.


"Are you going to be reachable tomorrow?" she asked. "Because if not, I'll have to let the doctor know that."


"OR YOU COULD WALK NEXT DOOR AND TELL ME WHAT MY TEST RESULTS ARE SINCE THEY'RE SITTING RIGHT THERE!!!!!" I screamed. In my mind.


What I really explained to her was that I was going to be in and out of reachability tomorrow, so it would be best for the doctor to call me back that day.


Less than 30 minutes later, the doctor called and said those magical words.


"It's benign."


That's when I let myself drape over the bed in relief to stare at the reproduced painting of Monet's waterlilies that hangs over my bed, which I put there because they make me happy. I then listened to her tell me that the tumor is not cancer, but is actually a fibroadenoma, which is a hard mass of benign tissue that forms for any number of reasons. It won't go away on its own, but has to be closely monitored in case it changes size or causes pain. But it's essentially harmless.


After a few phone calls to reassure my husband, parents, and in-laws, I just stayed on the bed for awhile, thinking of the bullet I dodged. I then prayed to thank God that I never had to go through acceptance and hope (phase 7), and wondered how other people do it. They are people much stronger than me.

Thinking positive only leads to disappointment

Though I was looking forward to my 27th birthday, I felt a bit of hesitation because of the fear that history was bound to repeat itself.


Nonetheless, I was thinking positive yesterday evening. My mom was on her way to New York to spend the weekend with me, I was set to sing lead female vocals in a cover band, Brent made reservations at a secret locale for a dinner that he said I was bound to love, and a bunch of my friends were meeting me at the bar for a mini birthday party and my singing debut.

That's when I felt it. As I was soaping up in the shower, I my fingers grazed over something that I hadn't noticed before: A lump in my breast. Panicked, I started running my fingers over the same area - about an inch beneath my armpit - on the other side hoping to find a similar lump that would tell me that it's supposed to be there that would relieve me of my fears that this might be something to worry about. I didn't.


So I lept out of the shower, and very nearly streaked into the living room toward a very surprised Brent to ask him if he could feel something weird or if it was just my imagination. He felt it too, and so did my mom, who was also a bit surprised to arrive in New York to a "Hi, Mom! Good to see you! Could you do me a favor and feel my boob?"

Now this is me, and I have what can only be described as an exceptionally vivid imagination. This can be cool because my dreams are almost always wild and creative, and last the entire night. Yet it can also be a curse. Because they're so vivid, I sometimes confuse reality from what my mind has created while I was sleeping. And at least a few times a year, I'll have a serious nightmare that I wake up from screaming or crying or gasping for breath. I hate having to fall asleep after those because my dreams will weirdly pick up from where they left off when I woke up.

So of course after finding the lump and agreeing with my mom that I need to make a doctor's appointment, I went to sleep and dreamt of that horrific conversation some people have with their doctors where they learn that they have six months to live. The difference was, that person wasn't just someone on a commercial or in a movie. That person was me.

So while I was at work the next day, my mom being my mom looking out for her daughter called and made an appointment with my OB-GYN to have it looked at. The soonest emergency appointment they have? FOUR days from now. Crap. Looks like I have a bunch more sleepless nights ahead of me!

Sometimes Hell's Kitchen lives up to its name

As I've mentioned before, I live in the Manhattan neighborhood known as Hell's Kitchen. It's roughly the area between 34th and 57th streets from 8th Avenue to the Hudson River.

Since I've been here, I've heard several stories about how Hell's Kitchen got its name. But my favorite version, and the most common one I've heard, involves a veteran police officer and his rookie partner. The pair were watching a small riot on West 39th Street near 10th Avenue, and the rookie is said to have muttered, "This place is Hell itself" to which the veteran cop replied, "Hell's a mild climate. This is Hell's Kitchen."

Though it has come a long way since then - and is actually a place I feel safe living in - it's the following SHOCKING story that make it live up to its namesake. This story was first pointed out to me by a source who wishes to remain anonymous. Let's refer to him as J. Wilhelm - no wait, that's too obvious. Let's call him Jim W. - a former colleague and president of the Erika Ray Blog Fanclub.

Though my source pointed it out to me first, it's come up in conversation many times with neighbors in a "did you hear about this story" kind of way, seeing since it happened a mere 4 blocks from my apartment.

Anyone seen "Weekend at Bernie's?" Apparently these two 65-year-old guys did too. And they thought they could get away with cashing their friend's Social Security check. Oh yeah - their friend was DEAD. But they were smart enough to know that their 66-year-old friend would have to be present to cash the check - so they ROLLED HIM TO THE CHECK-CASHING SHOP IN AN OFFICE CHAIR. All for a whopping $355, which they didn't get. Thankfully, they got arrested instead.

It's rare, but I am truly at a loss for words.

Read the whole story here.