![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.auntiefester.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/Screenshot-2026-10-25-at-4.37.36-PM.png\")
<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\nBut at this point, I’m keeping them around, because chiiiiiiiiile, menopause is doing a NUMBER on my midsection, and now there’s too much competition between my (faux) jugs and my (jelly) belly for the jugs to forfeit. Oh, it’s not too bad first thing in the morning; but by the time I’ve eaten dinner, the Protusion War is in full effect. So while I don’t typically wear them at home, I do usually stuff those squishy little suckers into a bra to go out, just for the sake of balance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In other, kinda-boob-related news: in late July, I had my annual CT scan with contrast, and in August, I had my semiannual visit with my oncologist. The only interesting tidbit to come out of either was the fact that the lung nodule we’ve been monitoring for a couple of years now (the thinking being that if it’s cancer, it’ll grow, so if it doesn’t, we good) has not only not grown \u2014 it has actually SHRUNK over the past year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So in terms of “little c” news \u2014 although I just wrote a helluva lot \u2014 there’s really not much to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did actually pull my act together to start seeing a primary care physician, because I figured now that my BIG health issue seems to be under control, maybe I should start tackling the smaller annoyances \u2014 starting with the fact that my blood pressure continues to betray me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Before I started chemo, my blood pressure (on the rare occasions it was taken, because I was one of those people who only went to a doctor when something was inexplicably red, painful, swollen, crooked, or bloody, which wasn’t very often) was always PERFECT. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once, I slammed my car into a truck that suddenly materialized before me \u2014 because the driver failed to obey his duty to STOP \u2014 whereby I slammed my knee into the lower part of my dashboard and my chest into an airbag, earning myself an ambulance ride to the hospital. I was so accustomed to A+ blood pressure that when I saw the reading on the BP machine inside the ambulance, I told them something must be wrong with the MACHINE. The paramedic was like, “GIRL.”
But I digress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The point is that when I started chemo, my blood pressure REALLY rose to the occasion! I told my friend, who’s an oncologist (but not MY oncologist) about it, and she said it was likely the steroids that come in the chemo pre-meds bundle, so I shouldn’t worry too much about it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually, though, my radiologist got worried about it, and put me on amlodipine. I balked, but complied, and eventually, with minimal effort, I was able to dip back into a BP range that was low enough that my oncologist gave me permission to stop the meds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
BUUUUUUUT, apparently that didn’t last. When I saw my new primary care doctor, she was pretty concerned about my BP . . . but she sent me away from that first visit with instructions to take blood pressure readings at home, and bring a log to the second visit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the meantime, I’d started running again, so I figured by the time I saw the PCP (oh, wait! She needs a name! Let’s call her Dr. Bestie, because I love her vibe so much I’m convinced that even if she weren’t my doctor and we somehow met, I would still talk to her about my private parts and stuff) again, I would have the blood pressure thing under control. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So in addition to a slew of new daily habits \u2014 drinking 64 oz. of water, taking Vitamin D, and injecting estrogen cream into my baby-maker (hmmmm, I guess I’ll talk to just about ANYONE about my private parts, now that I think about it) \u2014 I am also back on the amlodipine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It’s amazing how fast it has worked! Dr. Bestie again asked me to monitor my blood pressure at home between visits #2 and #3, and by the third day of monitoring after starting the meds, my BP was back to her old self again.
Mind you, I didn’t FEEL any different \u2014 except for the slightly more peaceful existence that came with not wondering if I was going to end up having a surprise stroke in the middle of making dinner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, a month or so into the amlodipine, I DID notice a change: in the late evenings (not EVERY evening, but often enough to cause me to take notice), once I had settled into bed with my book, my phone, my remote, or some combination thereof to while away the hour or so until a person under the age of 92 could respectably go to sleep, my heart would start doing gymnastics. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not like (and I know this reference is going to showcase ALL my geriatricity) Nadia Comaneci flinging herself with wild and rapid abandon (and yet, somehow, surgical precision) from one parallel bar to the next \u2014 but, rather, more like a drunk toad doing slow, sloppy somersaults inside my chest. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were no other symptoms: no shortness of breath, no dizziness, no numbness or pain \u2014 nothing. In fact, MY weirdo ass found it mildly comforting . . . for the first minute or so (which was sometimes as long as it lasted, while other times it went on for a few minutes) and then it just became annoying. And if you ask me, Health at Middle Age (TM) is really just trying to figure out which annoyances are just the way your body is going to roll from here on out, and which can be mitigated with pharmaceutical intervention. Still, if you know my family history, you know I am NOT the one to be messing around with heart issues \u2014 so, after a little research in the lab of Dr. Google, I went back to see Dr. Bestie, suspecting that the amplodipine was causing the issue. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Bestie wasn’t so sure; she said that heart palpitations were not a very common side effect of the medication. She did, however, offer me the option of switching to another medication, to see if that fixed the problem \u2014 OR the option to wear a heart monitor for a week, to get a little more information about what was going on with my tipsy chest toad. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
(I should note here that part of the reason I love Dr. Bestie is because she puts the reigns of my health smack dab in MY hands (which was not the experience I had with the cancer treatments); but as much as I might feel like that’s how it SHOULD be, it makes me nervous to have that level of control \u2014 I mean, of the two of us, I’M not the one who has the medical degree! But I digress.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because I was hesitant to try a different medication that might give me DIFFERENT side effects (especially if we weren’t even sure the amlodipine was causing the ONE side effect I was having), I chose the heart monitor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Getting the monitor attached was fast, easy, and reminiscent of having a cat (first, your chest gets swiped repeatedly with a rough wipe that feels like a cat tongue, then the tech attaches the monitor to your chest, and spends the next two minutes “making biscuits” on it, to ensure it stays put for the week). From that point on, anytime the toad started flipping, I would (a) press a button in the middle of the monitor, and (b) record the day and time of the floor routine, and what I was doing when it occurred. When the week was up, I was to remove the monitor, pack it in a pre-addressed, postage-paid box, and drop it in the mail \u2014 which just did this morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once it is delivered to its destination, some nice medical professionals will compare my report of inner amphibian activity with monitor readings during those times. If it appears that yes, my heart WAS doing (measurably) wonky things when I said it was, then I imagine there will be more tests; if it appears that my heart was behaving normally when I felt the flipping, then . . . I’m not sure what happens. Maybe THEN a switch in blood pressure medication, or an in-depth evaluation of my psyche, who knows? But you know I’ll keep you posted. (It may take months, because y’all know how I do \u2014 but I will eventually un-hang this cliff.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Since this post is about endings and beginnings, I feel compelled to say here that while I am DELIGHTED that my boob\/cancer-related issues seem FINALLY to have ended, I have ZERO interest in starting a Heart Issues chapter right now. So let’s all clench everything and wish REALLY HARD for the next “health issues” chapter to be about, like, my armpit hair or something. I feel like I can handle anything that would come up about that:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ingrowns? Plucked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
A sudden, thick, youthful resurgence? I will rock those tufts proudly and pretend I’m French.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A sudden disappearance? No complaints. I’m also fine being American. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Time makes you bolder<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
In other “ending and beginning” news, the chapter wherein Boy the Elder is a daily resident of our home has ended. In August, he flew the coop to Hays, Kansas, to begin his freshman year at Fort Hays State, where he appears to be killin’ it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like so many stories in my life, this one is yet another in which I’ve had the glory of witnessing the Universe’s long game. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
When BtE first started applying to colleges, his heart was set on heading north to Minnesota \u2014 a dream Love Tank and I wholeheartedly supported, but we encouraged him to apply to “back-up” schools as well. So in addition to a few schools in Minnesota (basically all of the University of Minnesota campuses), he also applied to, like, 15 other schools (a list I once had memorized, but couldn’t recite now if you offered me a bag of candy corn). As the acceptances (and one deferment, from the University of Minnesota’s main campus) rolled in, we made a few attempts to get him to narrow down his choices. Those conversations stressed him the hell out, so a lot of them didn’t get us very far \u2014 but finally, we reached a point where he had narrowed down his choices to University of Minnesota at Duluth (which had early-accepted him and thrown a little bitta money his way), and a few options in Kansas and Nebraska. Like the nerds we are, we threw up a giant whiteboard on an easel in the living room to document and compare the dollah billz associated with each: costs for tuition, room and board, minus any scholarship offers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Love Tank and I told him that the two of us would sit down and discuss the financial feasibiilty of each, and then we’d all reconvene to talk realistic options (and possible compromises, like he’d probably have to give up his car in order to be able to land in Minnesota). <\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few days later, I was at work, having one of those “liminal moments”: I was floating between a finished task and an impending meeting, and I didn’t really have enough time to complete (or make any meaningful progress on) another task \u2014 so like any reasonable person, I putzed around on the internet instead. Normally, at times like these, I look at real estate listings for fun and relaxation (I still dream of a cozy little number in Northwest Arkansas) \u2014 but this time, I decided to check out the websites for each of the five colleges on our living room whiteboard. Mostly I just wanted to look at photos of the campuses, and try to imagine my boy strolling across a tree-lined quad, but I also hoped I might stumble upon some bit of information we didn’t have that might make some sort of difference (like, I dunno, maybe one of these schools had a special scholarship for left-handed, half-Black, dirty-blond kids whose last names are hard to spell . . . it could happen).<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Finding nothing of the sort at any of them \u2014 and with a few minutes left to kill \u2014 I for some reason had a bug fly straight up my ass and whisper in my ear (which sounds physically impossible, but it happened) to check out Fort Hays State’s website. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fort Hays was NOT on BtE’s list. Not on ANYONE’s list, really \u2014 but way back when they sent their first letter to BtE to encourage him to apply, Love Tank looked at the tuition costs (which were listed in the letter) and suggested he consider it, because it was so economical. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Meanwhile, I was thinking, “EWWWWW, FORT HAYS? Who wants to go to Fort Hays?” but I said nothing, because (a) it wasn’t MY decision, and (b) I honestly didn’t think it would become a serious contender, anyway. And I was (kind of) right; although Fort Hays made it onto that list of nearly 20 schools to which the boy applied, it (like most of the rest of them) was not actually a school in which he was remotely interested. (Why, you might ask, did he apply to seventy-lleven schools he had no intention of attending? Honey, the world may never know. I sure don’t.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I had ZERO problems with that. But then, in that liminal moment, when the ass-bug whispered, I checked out the Fort Hays State website . . . and when I saw the tuition\/room and board costs for myself (and calculated the automatic merit scholarship he’d receive based on his GPA and ACT score, via a table handily displayed on the Admissions page), suddenly Fort Hays wasn’t looking so EWWWWW. (As a bonus, the website photos of the campus showed it to be an ACTUAL campus, as opposed to what I’d pictured in my head, which was basically two single-story buildings and a barn.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I texted Love Tank with my findings, and he suggested we bring it up to BtE that evening. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
So Fort Hays ended up on the white board.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
BtE agreed to consider it \u2014 on the condition of a campus visit. So I popped open my laptop later that evening, and scheduled a look-see within the following couple of weeks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next morning, my phone rang, and I was greeted by a bright, peppy Fort Hays student who was calling to confirm the campus visit for BtE. “He’ll meet with an admissions counselor, someone from the Business School [based on the major he’d chosen from the drop-down menu], and someone from the Honors College,” Peppy McPepperson said, and then asked, “Is there anyone else he’d like to talk to while he’s here?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Unprepared for the question, I blubbled out that, um, well, he was a wrestler and a cello player . . .
“Great!” came the reply, “So we can try to get the wrestling coach, and someone from the School of Music!” <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two hours later, Peppy called back to tell me the wrestling coach was going to be in Vegas at the time of BtE’s visit, but he wanted BtE to reach out to him via email \u2014 and the music school rep was a go. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I gotta admit, I was pleasantly surprised by what was shaping up to be one helluva red carpet for my boy. (A DUSTY red carpet that smelled faintly of cow poo, because we’re still talking about the middle of western Kansas, but plush nonetheless.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Love Tank accompanied BtE for the campus visit (while I stayed at home with Boy the Younger) and came back pleasantly surprised (and impressed) as well, particularly by the people they’d met from the various departments. In addition, both the music school representative and the Honors College representative had hepped them to a couple more scholarship opportunities. Though the application deadlines for both had technically passed, BtE was told that if he got applications in ASAP, he could still be considered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
So when he got back home, he submitted an application for an Honors College scholarship, and a video audition for a music scholarship . . . <\/p>\n\n\n\n
. . . and long story short, his Fort Hays education is costing us ZERO DOLLARS. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
ZEROOOOOOOOO. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Which meant that the 13-year-old car he was likely going to have to give up to get to Minnesota became a 4-year-old car he drove to Hays, because we (unburdened as we were by impending college tuition poverty) were able to give him Love Tank’s car as a graduation gift and buy a new car for Love Tank (and then buy ANOTHER new car for Love Tank when, a few weeks into life with the new whip, road flotsam in a rain storm totaled the new car from underneath . . . but I digress).<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the job he would need to help cover the cost of his tuition, room, board, and books became the job he’d need to cover costs like deodorant, Taco Bell, and \u2014 who are we kidding? \u2014 booze. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the eight hours Love Tank and I would have to haul ass by car in the event of an emergency became a four-hour ass haul (although there has not been an emergency thus far, *knock knock*).<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But the best part is that he seems HAPPY. Before he left, both of us were feeling some type of way; he was feeling nervous about moving to a place in the butt crack of Kansas where he knew nobody (and \u2014 I’ll say it \u2014 where political sentiments were more likely to run deep RED) and bummed about not getting to live his Minnesota dream, and I was feeling sad that he wasn’t more excited about college like I was back in the day (although as excited as I was, I do recall bawling like a baby in the wayback of my dad’s SUV as we set off for the two-day trek from Kansas to Georgia). And maybe a little afraid that he’d made a decision he’d regret, all in the name of fiscal practicality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By the end of his first week in Hays, those fears were put to rest. Although I hadn’t anticipated hearing much from him for the first couple of weeks, he called or texted almost daily to share snippets of his new life with us: he was making lots of hew friends (seems there were more blue dots than he anticipated in the middle of the red zone)! His roommate was cool! He’d joined a fraternity (members of which, in another red carpet move, had invited him to Hays to hang with them for a night over the summer)! He’d signed up to shoot off the cannon at football games (which I got to do as well, on Parents’ Weekend; IT IS A RUSH, baby)! He’d joined his fraternity’s membership development committee! He’d become the intramurals chair and was playing flag football! He was considering running for housing manager AND student government! <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Absolutely loving college,” he texted several days into Orientation Week. I refrained from reminding him that college still hadn’t started yet \u2014 but now that it has, and things have gotten a LITTLE more real (between school, his job, and ALLLLLL of his activities), he still seems to be handling it all pretty well. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
(I should also mention what he DIDN’T tell us, until I straight-up asked him on Parents’ Weekend (by which time I, having obsessively checked his location way more than I should have, already knew): that he’d basically completely blown off his room (and concomitant roommate) in the Honors College dorm, and was living in (the guest room of) the fraternity house. He had, he confessed, spent a grand total of TWO nights in his actual dorm room since Move-in Day. He and his roommate had gotten along well, he said, but they’d agreed that they’d both be happier with single rooms.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Overall, this whole chapter so far has been WAY more than I hoped for. MY hope was just that he wouldn’t be TOTALLY MISERABLE (although, before we moved him in, I reminded him several times that if he was, he wasn’t stuck with this decision for four years), and that maybe he’d meet a person or two who matched his vibe. Instead, he seems to have taken to his new life like a fish to water \u2014 an outcome owed in no small part to the fact that the majority of people he’s met (both first-year and upperclass) have the same story he does: they’d dreamed of going elsewhere for college, but Fort Hays proved to be much easier on the wallet. (And those who’ve been at Fort Hays for awhile have said they wouldn’t change things if they could.) <\/p>\n\n\n\n
So here I sit, grateful that Love Tank planted the Fort Hays seed more than a year ago, when both BtE and I were eyeing what we thought were greener pastures, grateful for the roughly 12 minutes of time to kill (and that perfectly timed butt bug) that motivated me to dump some water on that little sucker . . . and in awe of the Universe for lining all that shit up just right, over the course of a YEAR, so that I could shoot off a cannon. <\/p>\n\n\n\n As for Boy the Younger, he’s on his last chapter of elementary school \u2014 a bittersweet chapter made heavier on the “bitter” by the fact that this is also the last year his elementary school will be in existence. A couple of weeks ago, after a few highly contentious weeks following announcement of the proposed closure of six district schools (five elementary, one middle) at the end of this academic year, the hammer came down: the school board voted to approve all closures, including our wonderful little school. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The drama and trauma swirling around all of THAT would be a good five chapters, at least, so suffice it to say that people are, as you’d imagine, UPPPP. SETTTTT. And although he seems to be over it now, Boy the Younger, to our surprise, was no exception: when we got the email, Love Tank told him he would be part of his school’s last graduating class, and when I tell you he BROKE DOWN, I mean damn near to the GROUND. As he loaded up my shoulder with tears and snot, I, in an attempt to get him to process some of those feelings, asked him, “What is it that makes you so sad about this?” <\/p>\n\n\n\n Instantly, the sobbing stopped. He lifted his head, gave me a look that could wither the facial hair off of a gorilla, and spat, “You don’t KNOW????”<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were no further questions. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And, for the record, I’m sad about it, too. When I realized that Boy the Younger would be robbed of the opportunity, as a high school graduate, to walk the halls of his elementary school in his cap and gown, as his brother just did (such a great tradition), I shed a few tears myself. But we still have the rest of this year, and I am going to try to make the most of it \u2014 starting with the craft for BtY’s Halloween class party. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I feel certain I’ve mentioned it here before (perhaps more than once, but I make no apologies, because MENOPAUSE BRAIN, people!), but I rather unintentionally stumbled into this class-party-craft gig. When BtE was in elementary, I rushed to class party sign-up lists to score either the snack slot or \u2014 if some luckier, faster parent had beaten me to that coveted responsibility \u2014 the drink slot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n NOBODY wanted to be the parent who had to lead the craft (and often, once all the preferred slots were filled, teachers would send out desperate email requests: “We’re still looking for someone to lead the craft!”).<\/p>\n\n\n\n Needless to say, then, I thought I had my whole class party SOP on lock when Holland entered school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was wrong. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He started kindergarten near the tail end of the pandemic, when masking was de rigeur, so class parties did not include parents. By first grade, class parties were a thing again, but the rules had changed: ONLY parents who signed up for one of very few volunteer slots (food, drink, and craft or activity) were allowed to attend (whereas in the past, any parent could show up). On top of that, when BtE started first grade, I had just started chemo, so volunteering for the Halloween party \u2014 the first class party of the school year \u2014 wasn’t happenin’ for Mama. However, by Valentine’s Day, I had completed both the chemo and the post-chemo recovery period required for my boob removal (which happened the day AFTER Valentine’s Day that year), so I was ready to par-TAY.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Per usual, I jumped on the sign-up list as soon as the email announcing its availability landed in my email box . . . and HOORAY! The food slot was free! I swiftly entered my name and email address, and then called BtY over, with the sign-up list still lighting up my computer screen. “Look!” I said, pointing to the screen. “I got the snack slot for your Valentine party at school! What kind of snack do you think I should bring?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n Boy took one look at the screen, and \u2014 curse his ability to read! \u2014 said, “I don’t want you to bring the snack; I want you to do the CRAFT.” <\/p>\n\n\n\n And despite my best efforts, he could not be dissuaded from this particular desire, so I changed my sign-up, and girded my loins for disaster. <\/p>\n\n\n\n As it turned out, I ended up LOVING THAT SHIT; from the weeks spent brainstorming ideas and obsessively planning, purchasing, and prepping for it to actually surviving the in-class execution of my idea without any injuries (that particular craft \u2014 love bugs \u2014 involved sharp wooden cocktail picks), the whole experience proved to be a stressy, heady delight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So then it became my jam. And because Halloween is my absolute favorite class party holiday, I scored the Halloween craft slots for the next two years. And go, me, taking one for the team, because (please see above) NOBODY wants the craft slot! Or so I thought . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n . . . until one day when I met another mom at a birthday party last fall (remember how last year, BtY jumped ALL THE WAY out of his shell and started getting invited to ALL THE BIRTHDAY PARTIES?), who mentioned (very KINDLY \u2014 and very flatteringly, as she remembered and complimented all my previous classroom crafts) that she’d been trying to get the Halloween craft slot, but I always got there first. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Oh. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Well, shit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Here I was thinking I was everyone’s hero for taking the slot nobody wanted, when it turned out I’d been Bogarting that bad boy for two years! <\/p>\n\n\n\n So when the list came out last year, I snagged the slot for the snacks (which turned out to be a disaster \u2014\u00a0see photo below), and texted that mom that the craft slot was free!<\/p>\n\n\n\n Unfortunately for me, by that time, I’d already come up with a craft idea and bought a few supplies to test it out . . . but y’all know how the Universe works for me, so here I am, a year later, having dug up those supplies and purchased more to lead the craft for BtY’s last classroom Halloween party (and as a bonus, that other mom, whose kid is in a different class this year, snagged the craft slot for that class, so no Bogart guilt)!<\/p>\n\n\n\n BtY’s class is making bobblehead monsters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They may or may not resemble penises. <\/p>\n\n\n\n (BtY made a prototype the other day, both to test out the craft procedurally and to provide creative inspo for the class, and I was at first delighted by how it turned out . . . well, actually, for the most part, I still am \u2014 but when I looked at it the next morning, the 13-year-old boy who lives inside my soul was like, “Uh, you know that’s a dick, right?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n I have since polled A LOT of people, and responses are pretty evenly split between: <\/p>\n\n\n\n Judge for yourself: <\/p>\n\n\n\n Luckily, the design gurus on my team at work were ready with ideas to mitigate the penility of it all. So I will be including in each monster kit (which already includes horns, teeth, and multiple types of eyeballs and mouths) a 3-inch square of fake fur that each kid can use to add hair, and two 4-inch wooden mini-sporks (which I’ve spray painted green to match the foot) that each kid can use to add arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I’m still slightly nervous that I will somehow wind up in the principal’s office, but overall, I am EXCITED about this craft, y’all; pecker-esque or not, this is my swan song, and I plan to have a ball (JUST ONE, though, because two would only cause more problems). <\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\nEven children get older<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/a>\n
<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n