The Call Back

The first challenge for an auditioning actor is to get a callback. That means the directors ask the person to return for another audition to read, improvise and spend time with the director and other decision makers. Getting a callback puts the actor on the short list of people who might be cast for the part. To get one, the actor must do something that marks him or her as a stand-out at the audition, and a possible fit for one of the roles.

But there is one time when you don’t want a callback. I had one on Thursday. Two days prior, my cell phone rang as I was getting into the car with Abby on our way to hit some tennis balls. The conversation went like this:

Caller: “Hello, Mrs. Dinerman. This is [forgot her name} from the Beth Israel Deaconess in Lexington. Your mammogram {here is where my head got fuzzy} showed something different from the prior year’s mammogram { I’m doing my best to keep a straight face. I don’t want Abby to see any change in my expression}. We would like you to come in this week for another scan when the radiologist will be here. Are you available on Thursday?”

Me {as I step away from the car to look at my schedule on my iPhone}: “Thank you for your call. Which one is it?”

Caller: “Let me look here…the right one.” {you can hear empathy in her tone}

Me: “Thursday should be fine. 11 am works.”

Caller: “Ok, I have scheduled you. Best of luck, Mrs. Dinerman, and have a nice day.”

Me: “You too.”

We hang up.

Abby asked, “Mom, who was that?” I said, “It was a client who needed to reschedule a call.” Abby said, “You’re lying.” I said, looking at her straight in the eyes, lying right through my teeth, “No I’m not. Let’s get going if we want to get a court.”

Now, I am sure that wasn’t an easy call to make for that woman, but her tone was very warm and understanding. And the fact that I had Abby with me forced me to nearly dismiss it. But my insides were all jumbled and all I could think of was, 'Thank God I’m going to do something active right now and have a distraction.'

As soon as I had time alone, I called Brad. As I heard myself saying the words, ”They found something different in my mammogram,” his voice dropped, but I know he wanted to be strong and try to allay my fears. He said, “Hmmm. {pause} Well, let’s not get too nervous until we hear what they say. It is probably nothing.” He was right about not getting too nervous.

The next thing I did was probe and groped my right one. I didn’t feel anything unusual. I felt fine. But that’s what they all say. Several of my friends have been through this. In fact, within the past five years, it seems like it hits one of my tennis friends every year. I once said, half jokingly, “Who’s next?” Geez, I didn’t think it would be me. Who does?

According to the National Cancer Institute, "false-positive results are more common for younger women, women who have had previous breast biopsies, women with a family history of breast cancer, and women who are taking estrogen."

Yet, the site also claims that:

"False-negative results occur when mammograms appear normal even though breast cancer is present. Overall, screening mammograms miss up to 20 percent of breast cancers that are present at the time of screening.

The main cause of false-negative results is high breast density. Breasts contain both dense tissue (i.e., glandular tissue and connective tissue, together known as fibroglandular tissue) and fatty tissue. Fatty tissue appears dark on a mammogram, whereas dense tissue and tumors appear as white areas. Because fibroglandular tissue and tumors have similar density, tumors can be harder to detect in women with denser breasts.

False-negative results occur more often among younger women than among older women because younger women are more likely to have dense breasts. As a woman ages, her breasts usually become more fatty, and false-negative results become less likely. False-negative results can lead to delays in treatment and a false sense of security for affected women."

Stay positive

Wednesday came. I stayed busy at work. I let my colleagues know that I have a quick doctor’s appointment the next day and plan to be back within the hour. {Please}

After work, I helped out at Ari’s baseball practice. In those two hours, I completely forgot everything except baseball drills. When I have a moment to myself in the evening, I started to think about it. I talked about it with Brad. I was nervous. He knew that. When will I fit in treatments? What will I tell the kids? My parents? In-laws? Friends? Work? Damn. The respect I have for my friends and family who have fought and won, and fought and not won, was just elevated 1 million times.

Breathe.

Thursday morning came. I kissed Brad good-bye, drove Ari to camp and then got to work. At 10:45 a.m., I drove to the BI in Lexington. The BI in Lexington is a terrific and convenient satellite branch of the hospital in Boston. I checked in, changed from the waist up and took a seat. The technician called me within five minutes. I walked into the darkened room with the mammography machine. She showed me my original scan from Tuesday.

“See that little circle on the bottom," she said, "that’s what’s different from last year’s scan.” {My mind turned to mush, as did my insides. This is what some of my friends have said – it’s pea sized. Focus. Focus on what she is saying so I can relay it to Brad}. “Sometimes the way the machine takes the mammogram, it doesn’t smooth out the breast enough and we see what’s simply a clump of fatty tissue. That is what we’re hoping for here.” {Please, make it that.}

I tossed my right one onto the machine. The technician positioned my body so I felt like I was going to fall over. But I stood as straight as I could and balanced myself so she could get a good scan. “This time,” she said, “I’m not going to start from the top. I’m going to start a little further down and get a clearer look at that bottom part. Ok. Hold there. Don’t breathe. {I can’t anyway}.

“Ok, Mrs. Dinerman. Please have a seat in the waiting area. I will have the radiologist take a look at the scan. I’ll be right back.” {Take your time. No, please hurry!} I sat for a minute and tried to watch the TV that is on. It was showing The View with Whoopie Goldberg, who, I think, was talking about women who wear make-up and those who don’t. Not really sure.

The technician then called me back in. “Mrs. Dinerman, we have good news.” {Exhale}. “In fact it was a small cluster of fatty tissue. We’ll see you again next year.” I thanked the lovely technician. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t. {I’m clean}. I change and rush to my car to call Brad. We both smiled over the phone, and my eyes started to water, but I didn't cry. Instead, I smiled. {I’m relieved. I’m one of the lucky ones!} I drove back to work and continued my day.

My point: Sure, I had a scare, but that is all it was. I am not asking for pity. I have no right to ask for pity. As I mentioned, I know too many who have fought and won, and many who have fought and didn’t win. Women who are 40 years old, start getting checked each year. Despite the warnings, it's a start. At the risk of sounding political, with healthcare available, do what’s right for yourself and your loved ones. I am very thankful that I am able to get a mammogram and a pap each year to (hopefully) detect something early enough so, if it ever does decide to knock on my knockers, I might have a fighting chance.

Time

by Ari Dinerman

Sometimes you really wish that someone could have told you something would happen in the future. Like if you were going to be sent to the principal’s office, or your relative were going to get sick And if you do know about that before it happens, you could prevent being sent to the principal’s office or you could find a cure for your relative’s sickness. Sometimes time is your best friend or your worst enemy.

Imagine...

by Ari Dinerman, contributing writer

In the perfect town of Learn-a-lot, everything is so peaceful, so calm, so happy. In a town like this, you have learned so much that by the end of your life, you’ve learned too much. Your answer to a question would be as logical as it could be. There are no crimes, nothing. What is the point of living this life if there is no responsibility, and no more lessons to learn.

At the great ballpark

by Ari Dinerman, contributing writer

At the great ballpark, I see the ground balls being hit to all the positions on the field. While hearing all different fans begging for a comeback. In this stadium, you can hear that a lot. I can briefly taste the sand dry cigarette smoke streaming out from one’s filthy mouth. I am touching the armrests of my chair, feeling the rumbles of the stadium in disbelief. This makes me smell the salty French fries being carried by sellers walking up and down the aisles of the stadium, just like pacing back and forth, thinking what to do next.

Not Just Another Number

I realize that there is war and disease and other devastation going on around the world, but I must admit I was sad about something entirely off-beat today. I had to replace my very first license plate, 345 ASA. That was my traveling companion for more than 25 years.

We all are associated with numbers. Our first home phone number, home address, Social Security number, college ID number, first apartment number, first boyfriend’s (or girlfriend’s) phone number, first house with spouse number. The list is endless. As we transition to different parts of our lives, we leave behind one number and take on another. But for some reason, giving up my 345 ASA was harder, as if I were giving up a friend - someone who has been there for me through many of my growing up stages.

Why did I need to turn in my good ‘ole companion? Apparently, its façade became too cracked and the dulled sheen wasn’t able to reflect well in the dark. There’s no escape. I could go a lot of ways with this. When Brad gets older, much older, and he begins to crack and wrinkle, will I replace him with a newer model? Hmm…

In 1986, when I graduated from Dartmouth, this plate held on for dear life to the back of my first car, a Ford Escort. This was a used car which needed oil every other day. In fact, it ran so badly that I had to take the license plate off... the car couldn’t pull that kind of load (ba dum bum). When I went to for grad school in 1990, it then graduated to an early model of a charcoal gray, boxy Toyota Corolla. It later knew the streets of Waltham and Framingham, when I was living in an apartment in Framingham and dating Brad, who lived in Waltham. In 1996-ish, when we were first married and started at the then , it was pleased to be toted on a newer taupe Corolla model. For the past five years, it has logged in more than 118,000 miles on my Toyota Sienna. My children could identify my car among others in a parking lot. 345 ASA has seen all of New England several times over and is intimately familiar with Ashland.

When I was at the Milford RMV, I asked the nice lady behind the counter if I could keep 345 ASA, she looked at me with a surprised and somewhat puzzled look and said, “Oh no!” I actually had to hand my metal pal over to a stranger in order to be (gasp!) recycled. I hope the next owners appreciate it.

So long 345 ASA. Welcome 919 LV5. Enjoy the ride.

My New Tennis Buddy

One of my favorite things to do is to spend time with my family. One of my other favorite things to do is play tennis. When I can put those two favorite things together, I’m in heaven.

Over the summer, my daughter decided she wanted to play tennis. I didn’t push her, but she came to that decision on her own. When she was younger, she had participated in a clinic or two, but it really didn’t seem to stick. She dabbled at camp, but there was no real love there. One of her best friends plays, so that certainly helped move the needle a little bit. I was happy to take them both out to our local school courts and hit the ball. Little by little, Abby could keep the ball in play and have a rally. That motivated her to play more. We’ve moved on to serves and volleys, which really legitimizes her game.

All of the logistical details will fall into place soon enough. But the other side of this is being able to share something I love with my teenage daughter, and have her love it back. Over the years, she has played softball, which I also enjoy. But she put that aside. She enjoys dancing, but even that hasn’t been high on her list. So I was facing two things: getting her involved in something worthwhile, and finding a physical activity to keep her in shape. Checking off both of these items, plus including myself in the mix—priceless.

She not only looks forward to playing, but she looks forward to playing with me. As she moves more deeply into the teenage years (she’ll be 14 in three months), I want to savor these times together – just the two of us. We try to play at least once during the week, usually a Tuesday, and once on the weekend. Before she leaves for school, she might ask, “Can we play tennis today?” Music to my ears. I smile and say, “I’ll call for a court!” Then, after school and work, we both look forward to putting on our tennis clothes and sneakers, grabbing our racquets and hitting the fuzzy yellow ball over the unwavering net as many times as we can.

Today, we played a fun baseline game with another parent and his daughter, and she played very well. This was a huge step for both of us. She can hold her own on the court and has the confidence to face opponents she doesn’t know.

My daughter and I do many things together. She loves going to the mall, an activity which wasn’t always high on my list, but which I can stomach better with her by my side. She enjoys playing board games like Yahtzee! And now I feel fortunate that we share the same passion of tennis. She recently announced to me that she wants to play on the high school tennis team. I smiled and said, “Well, we have some work to do, but I am happy to help you get there.”

I am Davida. And I like Words with Friends

Am I addicted? That’s debatable. I don’t shirk my responsibilities as a wife, mother, daughter, employee, volunteer, tennis partner or any other primary areas of my life. I don’t stay up to play until all hours of the night. I don’t do it at the dinner table. I also don’t play other apps, such as Angry Birds or or Solitaire.
I do like to play when I get a rare free moment during the day, or in the evening when I’m winding down from a hectic day. Does this sound defensive? Maybe a little.

I feel slightly guilty that I am not using my 20 or so minute of free time at night reading a book. I really should read more. But I have always loved Scrabble, and more recently Bananagrams, but we don’t play it very much at home. I have always loved the challenge of putting words together, particularly along a DW (double word) or most especially along TW (triple word) square. And if one of the letters is worth 5 to 10 points, woo hoo!

Right now, I am involved with nine simultaneous games going with a cousin from Florida, who beats me every time, and several friends from Massachusetts, Georgia and Texas. I can even send people little messages – like instant Chat with Friends.
Really, there could be worse things, like drinking, smoking or gambling. I don’t pig out on donuts or drink huge quantities of diet soda. Lately, my kids have wanted some of the Words action. Hey, it’s educational right? They said, we should play Scrabble more. That would be fine with me.

p.s. This week, my iPhone seemed to play possum. I learned how to reboot it, and it was fine. The first thing I thought of was, “Oh no! My games!” Not… “Oh no, my email! “Since they are in a cloud with my account, I really wouldn’t have lost them, but I guess it says something about this new little hobby of mine.