My Not-So-Lovely Lady Lump

Almost a year ago, my doctor found a lump in my throat. I'm sharing this story until now because it's a very personal story, one that I had kept even from my own family and closest friends.

I've battled with hyperthyroidism for years. Some of you may be wondering what the heck hyperthyroidism is, and to give you a reader's digest version I'll just say that I can basically eat like a horse without gaining a pound. Of course, it has many drawbacks, fatigue, a weak immune system, and a very low stress-threshold are just a few of them. Thyroid problems (whether hyper or hypo) also leave you very susceptible to throat cancer. I'm still unsure why this is, but there I was, sitting at the doctor's office, being told I had a lump.

I don't remember much of what the doctor told me after "lump", except for the word, "cancer"... She must have talked for a straight five minutes, but those were the only two words I heard through my entire appointment.

She quickly scheduled me for an ultrasound, but you know in hospital terms scheduling an appointment "as soon as one is available" is equivalent to saying, "see you next month". So I had to wait a couple of weeks before my appointment. Waiting sucked. When you wait to be "diagnosed" with something, you tend to just self-diagnose yourself through WebMD. By the end of a week, I had already convinced myself that I had cancer and would be dying a slow and terrible death.

It took me a couple of days to share it with my then-boyfriend, now-husband. Sharing the news with him was very tough. Immediately after I told him of my lump, I remember saying, "you can leave me if you want". It's so easy to throw yourself a pity-party when life throws you a curve ball. I'm a woman whose petite frame usually doesn't do justice to her strength or courage. When I walk down the streets of North Long Beach and a vato loco stares at me, I stare at him square in the eye. With my look I tell him, "I'm hood too, yo. So don't even try." And yet- this quarter size lump was stripping me away of my dignity.

The weeks leading to my appointment became a turning point in my life. As I mopped around my room and apartment, I began to realize that not only had I given up on myself but I had also given up on God. Up to that point in my life, I had only seen God perform healing miracles in the lives of others, but I had never experienced one in my own adult life. Just two years before my lump discovery, my mother had been healed of a heart attack. Right before going into a risky procedure to uncover what had caused her heart attack, her blood work showed no signs of any heart attack. Dumbfounded, the doctor ordered more tests - and again, they came back negative. The doctor's eyes searched the room frantically, trying to understand what was going on - I simply sat back and watched. I knew God had answered our prayers. The traces of any heart attack had left my mother's body, because God had deemed it so. God heals. It was that simple. My mother was able to walk out of the hospital that very day, with no need for surgery... Of course, knowing the miracle that God had granted in my mother's life only made it harder for me to ask for my own- as if God had a "one miracle per family limit" policy, right?

After a couple of tormenting weeks, I decided it was time to talk to God about my not-so-lovely lady lump. In my mind, the words, "I know this is happening for a reason, so let it be Your will" replayed in my mind. Because, I mean, that's the right thing to say to God, isn't it? Yet, when I opened my mouth, all I could say was, "this doesn't belong in my body. You want me to live a life of abundance and health. So I refuse to accept that this is from You. God, you've told me to ask and I shall receive. I'm asking for healing Lord. And I'm ready to receive." Like you, I was shocked by my own words and conviction. I had never talked to God with that level of confidence; yet, I didn't feel wrong about it. Too many times I had confused "accepting God's will" as being synonymous with accepting defeat. But His word had taught me all about a new God. A God of kindness and love. A God that wants me to get up and fight for what's rightfully mine - a life worth living! A God that wants me to trust I will receive in abundance, even when I have nothing. A Father that wants to heal, restore, and renew. Discovering that I had such an amazing God, led me to a higher level of faith. Like that lady in the bible who knew all she had to do was touch the end of his cloak to be healed, I knew that all I had to do was reach and believe.

They say the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. My doctor called me a week after my appointment to say that the ultrasound came back with absolutely nothing. After a brief silence on the line, she said she was sure she had felt a lump, but that the ultrasound was coming up blank. She asked if I wanted to schedule another appointment with her to do a re-examination. I could hear papers shuffling, and I could almost see her eyes searching frantically through my chart and results - trying to find a reason, an explanation - just like my mother's doctor had done two years back. I told my doctor a re-examination was not necessary.

The answer she was looking for was the same one my mother's doctor needed too: God heals.

The Impossible

Amidst my ever growing collection of random thoughts placed on paper, I found this one... A very warm thank you to a special friend who got me searching for my buried treasures.

---- ---

June 2008:

I ask for the impossible in a man. I wonder sometimes if dating outside of my race is the only option left. According to Mexican mothers all around the world, I'll never be good enough for their now-adult-man-of-a-son who still lives at home, and whose laundry basket she just loaded into the washer. "Ya esta la comida" is a phrase that Mexican men have learned to, ironically, embrace and neglect all at once. As a young college activist, I vowed to never cook for a man. Feeding ourselves is a survival instinct. You'll get up and eventually find your way to the fridge if you're hungry enough. My thoughts were that if a man did not have those fighter instincts to make himself something to eat when he was hungry, then he was obviously not the man for me. I used to seriously think, "why is it that a slit between my legs puts me in the kitchen? Did God design that slit with a kitchen knife?" Thoughts of a "Maria gone wrong", let me tell you, I had plenty of 'em.

The way I see it, if you, your mother, or grandmother were named Maria - you're screwed. I have both in my family. Maria, my mother, and Maria, my grandmother. My anti-Marianismo mentality fought constantly against that invisible badge of honor in my family. "We're Mexican women, and as such - you will work, you will sacrifice, cook, and clean - and you will do it with no complaints. Why? You don't get to ask why. Just do it, chingado!"

Eventually, I grew out of my rebel phase. I guess you're early 20's would be incomplete if there weren't a million things you wanted to change about your culture, family, or country. My anger shifted into compassion, and I learned to be grateful for the values that all the Maria's in my family had taught me, and the humility they fulfill their culturally given roles with. I still; however, yearned for the impossible in a man. And if I wanted to be completely honest, I wanted it from a Mexican man... Take that grin off your face. He's out there... Right?

I asked myself sometimes if my expectations were surreal. Can I find a man who can manage to thank me just the same when I take that chicken out of the oven versus taking it out of a Stater Bro's already-cooked-rotisserie box? A man who looks into my eyes and finds my soul before he grabs my breasts like dough? - a juxtapose camaraderie between the macho man I yearn to have and the gentle love I need.

A bull with a heart of a lamb... Yes, I think that's it... I'm telling you- I want the impossible in a man.

- - - - - - -

Inspired by Ana Castillo's "I Ask the Impossible"

"I ask the impossible: love me forever.
Love me when all desire is gone.
Love me with the single mindedness of a monk.
When the world in its entirety,
and all that you hold sacred advise you
against it: love me still more.
When rage fills you and has no name: love me.
When each step from your door to our job tires you--
love me; and from job to home again.

Love me when you're bored--
when every woman you see is more beautiful than the last,
or more pathetic, love me as you always have:
not as admirer or judge, but with
the compassion you save for yourself
in your solitude.

Love me as you relish your loneliness,
the anticipation of your death,
mysteries of the flesh, as it tears and mends.
Love me as your most treasured childhood memory--
and if there is none to recall--
imagine one, place me there with you.
Love me withered as you loved me new.

Love me as if I were forever--
and I, will make the impossible
a simple act,
by loving you, loving you as I do"

Oh how I love my pollito legs!

I've been skinny and petite my entire life. I've never weighed over 100 lbs. All you ladies out there with more "love to give", I guess this is where you shoot me. So I can pull off a mini skirt to work, and make it look appropriate cause my pollito legs aren't turning anyone on, but what my pollito legs do end up doing is causing all kinds of people to say things like, "Oh, my God, you're so skinny" or, "Oh, my God, do you eat?"... and of course, my favorite one, "I hate you". Of course, the "I hate you's" are usually people just being sarcastic... kind-a.

The thing with someone growing up with people telling them the same thing over and over their entire life is that at some point or another it will get to you! And when it does, good luck having a good self-esteem.

As a teenager, I spent a good portion of my time wearing sweats under my jeans. This made me feel more confident about myself, because I was actually able to fill up my jeans, as opposed to having that "relaxed" jean look all the time. When I wasn't wearing sweats, I was comparing myself to the girls that didn't need to wear sweats under their body-huggin' leggings... I mean jeans. I yearned to be that girl. That girl that had to suck in her tummy just a bit before buttoning up her jeans. That girl that made white jeans paired with heels look like nobody's business. But I was never that girl. And I will never be that girl. I'm the skinny girl. The girl people ask her to eat something because "she needs it". The girl who was blessed with a mother who is also a seamstress or else she'd be broke with all the alterations her wardrobe is in constant need of... (Which reminds me, I really need to take some sewing classes).

So I had pollito legs, long skinny arms, a long torso and as if that wasn't enough- my pollito legs, were also short pollito legs. I mean, who goes to KFC and says, "Gimme some legs and thighs, and oh yeah- make sure those legs are short!". Yeah, no one does. People want breasts and thighs. You know -meat! This is why legs and wings are always cheaper, too much bone and too little meat. By now you should have a good idea as to where my self-confidence and self-esteem where. You guessed it, somewhere with the bottom feeders in the Atlantic Ocean. But one day, my self-esteem surfaced out of those dark depths and met with Jesus. And Jesus said, "Flaquis, I designed you even before you were in your mother's womb. I am the architect of that body which I love, and you hate so much" (Jeremiah 1:5). And I cried. And I sobbed. And I realized that what I had trashed my entire life - He had died for.

It was when I realized who my creator was when I started to view my body differently. I started to appreciate its distinctiveness. Little by little, I began to embrace what God had created with that lump of clay (Isaiah 64:8). I no longer yearned to be anyone who He had not yearned me to be, I yearned to bring light to who He had meant for me to be. I asked Him to change my thinking, and little by little I began to think differently about my body. I saw the many advantages I had, as opposed to the disadvantages I had spent my life mopping about. I mean, I can hide myself in very small spaces if the need to do so ever presented itself... I would be that girl on the news that had managed to call the cops from inside the kitchen cabinet before they got away with all her money and jewelry!... I can see the headlines now! :)

God changed the way I cared about everyone else's body and He helped me start to care about my own. As soon as negative thoughts came into my mind about my body, I kicked them out with the force of Chuck Norris. It all finally hit me when I started to take dancing seriously. It was here when I realized what a commodity I was. My dance companions were constantly telling me how lucky I was to be so petite and flexible as a dancer. My short pollito legs were a sought after item because they looked lean and fast. My long torso became graceful and the small curves God chose to give me looked divine in a leotard! I realized then what I was not able to come to terms with before, that God created my body with a purpose in mind. Like a butterfly, my tiny body can prance and twirl with flexibility. Dancing brings me a joy that very few things in life can bring me, and I know now that as God was working with my lump of clay, He must have said, "I'm going to make this one a dancer... Let me see, she'll need lean legs, a petite frame... long torso... Ah, perfect".

:-)

Standing Up

Lately I've felt like God has been asking me to spend some quiet time. Just Him and I. I haven't done much for the ministries I'm involved in, so I resort to reading the bible and just talking to Him. I've learned that out of all the things you could do in your walk with Christ, these are probably the two most important. Reading His word and opening the lines of communication with the big Man upstairs!

I've gone through tough times lately, two in particular have called for me to stand up for what I felt was right. I'm usually seen as woman of strong character. So why was standing up for what I knew was right so difficult? I don't have a clue.

After much prayer, I realized that there was no other out but for me to stand up for what I KNEW was right. Did I ruffle some feathers, rock some boats, and twist some chonis? Yea, I did. People weren't happy. Standing up for what is right isn't always easy, I knew that, and that's why I didn't want to do it! I think that's a lot of us a lot of the time. It's hard to do the right thing when you're the only one that sees it.

What did I learn at the end of it all? I learned that God always has my back. I am able to walk with my head held high because I know that I did what God asked me to do-- and when we do what the King of Kings asks us to do-- there's no shame in our game ;)

At some point, God may be calling you to stand up and do the right thing. It's conflicting, I know! Again, because of my strong character, I often need to remind myself to be humble and submissive-- to show the left cheek when slapped on the right one... Just when I thought I had the whole "submissive-cute-Christian-girl" act down, God calls me to take out my boxing gloves.

What we fail to see sometimes is the many incredible stories in the bible about men and women who went into battle, who faced their terrors face to face-- all with God's blessing. There is a time when we gotta stand up and say "enough!". I am glad the Lord has put me through that experience already, because I know that the next time I need to stand up to another injustice, it's going to be easier for me to discern the injustice, and acknowledge what I need to do about it (if that's what God wants me to do). Standing up for myself this time was very different than all the other times I had to do it. For starters, I did it in an organized way. Before standing up for myself, I sought council from older folks. I never altered my voice, I never let my emotions take control. I truly believe that God gave me the focus and determination I needed to carry out my "stand-up" the way He intended for it to be.

This was very different for me. I used to just get loud and authoritative whenever I felt something wasn't right. I justified my lack of manners because of whatever grave offense I felt was being committed. I was wrong! We are called to shine our light in every scenario. We can't put our Christ-like principles aside just because someone is going guetto on us. Yes people-- we can remain cool, calm, and collected when we're standing up for ourselves. We can show the world how different Christ makes us when our actions and reactions are completely different from what the world expects them to be!

I listened to what God was telling me. And I turned away from impulse. I took a step-back, prayed, listened and took action. I had to trust God blindly on this one-- trust me who I had to stand up to, and how was not easy! I looked up a couple of times asking, "Are you sure you want me to do this?!". Yes-- He wanted me to do it--but His way, not my way. And I am oh, so very glad I did!

Facial, Massage, & Ball game...

I've been blessed with another birthday. Thank you Jesus. I'm currently holding two jobs, balancing out necessities v.s. wants, and at times it all seems too chaotic, and yet-- I'm happier than I've ever been.

The problems are still there, but God helps me put a smile on my face each and every day. I am humbled by His love and mercy. He holds me, and cradles me with tenderness. Jesus rocks my world! I've said it before, and I'll say it until the day I die: Lord, you rock my world!

This year, I've decided to treat myself to three things for my birthday: a facial, a massage, and a ball game.... Believe it or not, I'm a sucker for facials and massages, and all that spa stuff. I can't help it. I get all giddy when I'm on my way to a spa, or even when I book an appointment. It doesn't happen too often, but when it does-- you can bet your right _____ (fill in the blank), that I'm overly excited about it.

Other than that, I'm also treating myself to a ball game. 'Cause, you know, I need to balance out the girlie stuff. One of my favorite things to do is to go to live sport events. My favorite, by far, has got to be soccer. So as you can imagine, this year I'm all giddy about the World Cup too!!... but, hey, futbol, football, boxing, baseball, basketball--- you'll catch me screaming, either way.

This year: I'm ever-and-eternally grateful that God has granted me another year... all these other little things are extras He allows me to do while I'm here. He provides the job (jobs, in my case!) to pay for a little pampering here and there, He provides me with good health to keep working, and be able to pay for these things.... And if He's chosen to grant me another year of life, it's because He's not done with His mission with me, and that right there-- is more exciting than any spa treatment I could ever get!

Super shorty v.s. Super Tall ;)

Bball 02/2010
Originally uploaded by marthaonamission

How hard is it for a shorty like me to steal a ball away from a 6+ footer?... ehh, pretty hard. BUT, not impossible ;)

[check out my fancy footwork] hehe ;)

My non-denominational self v.s. My very Catholic mother...

A Virgin Mary head stands in the way of my parent's doorbell. If you want to avoid "disturbing" the head, and you want to knock instead, there will be a sign in front of your face that reads, "This house is Catholic, we do not accept propaganda"... If you've managed to get through these two obstacles, there will be one more inside with my mom's rosary/virgin mary/candle burning altar sitting at our breakfast bar.

My mother is Catholic and she's proud of it. She's infused our home with "catholicism" decor.

Knowing how very Catholic my mother is, and how "non-anything-religious" I am, you can imagine the conversations that spark up between my mother and I... Trying to explain to my mother that I'm "non-denominational" and what this means is hopeless.

I love me some Jesus. Jesus is amazingly awesome. He hung out with losers, he partied with the common folk. He embraced what others rejected. He hated all things religious, he called the most elite religious people at the time "brood of vipers" and defied their customs and laws. Jesus is a revolutionary. The first true revolutionary; and ironically, the one history forgets to mention.

Religion is man-made. Jesus is divine. Religion, at times, oppresses; and Jesus simply frees. I love me some Jesus, I'll pass on religion... People sometimes tend to mix & match the two-- confuse them as if one thing implies the other. Like a burger & fries, they feel that if you're into Jesus, then you're automatically "religious".

Anyway, without further a due, here are some stories about my very catholic mother and my non-denominational self:

A couple weeks ago, my mom asked me what I was planning to give up for "lent". I told her (politely) that I hadn't really thought about it (because, again-- I am non-denominational, but my mom chooses to completely ignore this and thinks that I'll just continue to conform to catholicism)... days later, it ended up being "ash wednesday", and since I didn't go get the ashes on my forehead, my mother had a cow about it. She got home from work that day, marched straight into my room, looked at my forehead and breathed out a huge sigh of shock.

She couldn't believe that I hadn't gone to go get the ashes on my forehead. She went on and on about how I was sinning. I just listened and told her that there's nothing in the bible that mentions needing to get ashes on your forehead, and that while I think lent is a nice tradition, I simply didn't feel the need to go get ashes on my forehead to make God happy. Well, she nearly dropped on her knees right then and there and said 10 hail mary's. I almost wanted to slam my head against the wall just to leave a mark on my forehead and make her happy. :D

___

.... I have a bible study that meets every Thursday here at my house. One day at breakfast, my mom asked me what type of girls came (meaning she wanted to know whether they were Catholic or Christian, since she's well aware that I have friends from both religions). I told her that the group was mixed. She (again), breathed out a sigh in shock and said that she may need to kick the Christian girls out because they may be giving all her "virgencitas" bad vibes... I said, "What do you mean, mom?" and she said, "Well, Christians don't pray to the Virgin" to which I responded, "You're right, they don't"... And then she said, "Well, that's probably making my virgencita very upset... that those girls don't pray to her and that they ignore her."

____

On a trip to Mexico, my sister bought a crucifix necklace. With time, I guess the crucifix fell, and all that was left was the cross. I was on my way to the restroom when my sister stopped me and said, "Look!" (pointing to her necklace). I asked her, "What?" (I didn't know what she was talking about), and then she explained how the crucifix had fallen. I told her, "Don't worry, it's just the 'monito' [little doll] part that fell. You still have the cross and it still looks nice".

Well, my sister went back to tell my mom that she was going to keep the necklace on since it was just the 'monito' that had fallen. My mom asked her why she was calling the crucifix a 'monito' and, of course, my sister told her that that's what I had called it..... I honestly did not mean to disrespect the crucifix by calling it a 'monito' ["little doll"], it's just that at the time, I honestly couldn't remember what it was called.

Well, by the time I came out of the restroom, my mom was screaming out of her lungs, shouting out, "this is not called a 'monito', this is Jesus Christ" (pointing to a small crucifix in her hand). I said, "Mom, that's not Jesus Christ". And she said, "Yes it is!!!" And she grabbed the little crucifix, pointed to it again and said, "Jesus is in there!!"

_____

:)