Please Get Squished and Squeezed--PLEASE!

Today I got squished. I wasn't looking forward to it, but breast cancer is a killer. I know. Too many women dear to me died of breast cancer--young.
Several left earth before 40--the age we are advised to get our first mammogram.

So girls, just because you are younger than 40, don't think you are safe. If there is no cancer in your family, don't be sure you are blessed with good genes. Some of my friends passed away with their healthy mothers and grandmothers grieving by their bedsides. Please check your breasts and see a doctor immediately if you feel a lump. I beg you to do this so your name doesn't appear on my heart as one who died too soon.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. We can do a lot to raise awareness: people run races for the cure, writers blog about being squished, pink is everywhere, women wear pink bracelets, pink nail polish, have pink parties in October. It's all good.

The most important thing you can do is not talk, but act. Go get that mammogram and then announce it to the world with your pretty pink toes.

Love you, girlfriends. I want to have you around a long time. Be a splash of serenity to me and comment on this post that "Yes, indeed, I had a mammogram this month."

Remembering my special friends now in Heaven. I write this for them and I write this for you,

Elaine

He Cleaned Up My Mess!

Last month I was smashed. This month I was flushed. The mammogram was easy. The colonoscopy was not.

Most of us know to prep for a colonoscopy, we drink a gallon of laxative and experience a glorious cleansing of everything not securely attached to our innards. I picture my poor liver holding on for dear life while the torrent of liquid washes away every trace of onion. Enough of that picture.

But it gets worse. My body has trouble with medicine. I mean Nyquil keeps me awake. My 5 foot 1 inch frame didn't know which end was up and my flushing also became my vomiting. Violent vomiting--that landed me in a hospital bed with an IV. Without being too graphic (because that is not the point of this blog), let's just say my dear hubby rushed me to the hospital after I baptized our beautiful white bathroom from both ends.

Lying in the hospital, IV pumping my dehydrated and delirious body with nutrients, I thought about my bathroom. I love my bathroom. That's why I write bathroom books. At that moment I knew the floors and perhaps walls of my bathtime sanctuary were a mess.

Babette, my nurse, made me feel better with her physical and verbal comfort. "I can tell your husband really loves you," she said. "How?" I asked. "By the way he looks at you." Let me tell you, I've probably never looked worse. He really does love me.

Hours later my body settled, colonoscopy performed, no polyps found, my hubby returned me to our home and tucked me into bed. When I awoke, the reality of it all hit me. Oh dear, I've got to clean that bathroom. It's a mess.

Walking into the scene of the crime, I was overwhelmed at the sight. The bathroom sparkled. Dan had cleaned up my mess. What an awful job for a husband, who considered it a privilege. Never have I felt so loved.

The Bible says husbands are to love their wives as Christ loved the church. That's how Dan loves me. He cleans up my mess. Just like Jesus, Who died to clean up all our messes. It doesn't matter how dirty and smelly and gross is your mess. Jesus really loves you and He'll clean it up. Let Jesus wrap his arms around you, whisper sweet comfort in your ears, and clean up your mess. You'll never be more loved.

Splashes of Serenity,

Elaine