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April 14, 2008

Eggs ‘n Ovaries


My mom died suddenly two and a half years ago . She’d just been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Her cancer was quite advanced by the time it was detected, which is too often the case.

I guess people who haven’t lost a parent think I should “be over it,” but the truth is that I think about her every single day. I don’t guess I’ll ever get over it.

About the only thing I can do is to try and make some good come out of this horrific event. And so, here’s some information about ovarian cancer so that you can help prevent it and throw some money at it if you’re so inclined. It would be fantastic if a cure, or at least a decent method of detection for this deadly cancer could be found.

They call ovarian cancer the disease that whispers. Ovarian cancer is difficult to detect because its symptoms are easily confused with other diseases, such as irritable bowel syndrome. There is no reliable, easy to administer screening tool that can be administered to all women. The blood test that detects a protein in some women with ovarian cancer, the CA-125, often is not positive until the disease is in its later stages. The CA-125 is elevated in only 25-50% of Stage 1 cancers, making it ineffective as a screening tool. Ultrasound can identify masses in the ovaries, but cannot tell if the masses are cancerous or not.

The five year survival rate for women diagnosed when their cancer is in Stage 1 is 90%. The overall five year survival rate for ovarian cancer is 50%. At Stage 3 the five year survival rate is 35-40%.

By the time my mom’s cancer was diagnosed, she was suffering symptoms such as shortness of breath, bloating, and lack of energy. Her doctor drained over a liter of fluid from her abdomen the same day, and she was scheduled for surgery three days later.

I’m sure each of you know someone who’s been touched by ovarian cancer. If you can’t think of anyone offhand, perhaps some of these names are familiar to you: Gilda Radner, Madeline Kahn, Liz Tilberis, Jessica Tandy, and Shari Lewis. All died of ovarian cancer.
gilda madeline notimetodie1 jessica OBIT LEWIS

There are a number of actions you can take to help find a cure for this deadly disease.

There is a deadline for signing up to get your car tag to support ovarian cancer research in Alabama. Click here to download a form for the tag. You can do it BY MAIL instead of schlepping to the DMV! The deadline is RAPIDLY approaching so go ahead and click over and register now. I’ll wait. (The page also contains information about getting an ovarian cancer tag in Kentucky, and for starting the process to get a tag approved in your state.)

You can read about Brittany Waldrep, whose illness inspired the tag here in Alabama. She passed away in 2006 at the age of 25.

Additionally, we’ll be holding a MOTHERWALK to raise funds for ovarian cancer research on May 10 here in Birmingham. Last year my sisters and I formed a team to walk in memory of my mom and we plan to do the same this year. If you’re nearby, come join us!

Here is the first column I wrote about losing my mom, and here is one I wrote a couple of weeks later.

My mom was always up for an adventure. When she was visiting Israel and she had the chance to ride a camel, she didn’t hesitate. She climbed right up on that camel and showed him who was boss.


Thanks for your support. Please pass this along to anyone else who might be interested in helping with this important cause.

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 8:30 amDeep Thoughts,Mom,Ovarian Cancer,Spines & Livers & Bones, Oh My!25 comments  

January 25, 2008

Feeling Egotastical

What a delicious morning! Bill, our resident coffeemaker, is out of town, so I woke knowing I’d have to face the hated Cuisinart Grind N Brew and create something resembling java. Happily, Finn was cooking eggs and bacon and Porter had the coffee started.

His gesture wasn’t selfless. I mentioned earlier that he’s developed quite a love for the stuff, so we’ve limited him to half a cup in the morning. He began using larger and larger cups until we refined our definition to four fluid ounces plus one teaspoon of sugar, max, and reminded him where the measuring cups and spoons reside.

His coffee is just as tasty as Bill’s. I’m a lucky mom.

I’m feeling especially queenly for another reason. Nicole at Tickled Pink has posted an interview she did with me. Go check it out.

I didn’t want to freak her out by coming in just under deadline, so I left something out that I want to emphasize every chance I get. Besides E.B. White, I am obsessed with Dr. Jerome Groopman. I’ve plugged him many times before. His book Second Opinions is mandatory reading for anyone who’ll be dealing with the health care system at any point– THIS MEANS YOU!

I’ve dealt with hospitals, clinics, health care professionals and unprofessionals more times than I can count, and the simple truth is that you must keep up with your own health care, whether that means keeping up with what tests you’ve had or making sure the tubes of your blood get labeled with your name, not the bozo’s in the chair next to you.

Dr. Groopman also writes for the The New Yorker and has an allegedly interesting article in this week’s issue. I wouldn’t know; Finn stole my copy and read it. Infuriating, yet gratifying.

Anyone else hear Brian Williams talk about the new study that says taking birth control pills offers protection against ovarian cancer even after you stop taking them? Whoo hoo! I’d like to get off them and see if my migraines improve. I’ve been taking them only because of the ovarian cancer protection; perhaps I can rid myself of a medicine.

For those of you wondering exactly when it was that I decided that maybe Porter wasn’t as dumb as a stick, it’s a story called Letter Share that took place when he and Drew were in kindergarten. They’re now in third grade. Time doesn’t fly; this seems like eons ago.

Poor geography alert! Bill’s in Nebraska on business. We debated WHERE that state is before checking ourselves on Porter’s wall-size map. I was ashamed to have guessed that it was maybe to the left of Arkansas. I had the correct longitude but it’s actually two states up, just under South Dakota. I bet the folks in that fine state weren’t impressed with our tale of snow at all.

Happy weekend!

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 9:01 amBlast From the Past,Glamorous Escapades,Hepatitis C,Ovarian Cancer,Spines & Livers & Bones, Oh My!11 comments  

January 17, 2008

Resolutions, Deep and Shallow

I’m mystified as to why it’s suddenly unfashionable to make New Year’s Resolutions under the theory that they’re impossible to keep. I’m a huge fan of resolutions, but there’s an art to making them.

I discovered this the year I resolved to make more salads. I can take them or leave them, but my husband salivates over a well-made salad, and theoretically, they would have been a healthy addition to our dinners.

The dilemma was that my husband was raised by a salad-maker extraordinaire, and the other Mrs. Glamore doesn’t merely plop some greens and a chopped carrot on a plate and top it with Italian dressing. One of her signature salads involves candying walnuts (cooking the walnuts in butter and sugar until the walnuts have a sweet, crunchy coating), locating Craisins (are they a fruit? a snack?), crumbling funky cheese, such as feta or Stilton, slicing a red onion into tiny dice, or a scallion into fragile rings, and mounding all of the above on top of some beautiful mixed greens.

Next she creates a homemade vinaigrette, with balsamic vinegar, garlic, onion juice (you haven’t lived until you’ve squeezed an onion) and so forth. Each salad requires its own plate, which takes up twice the dishwasher space, and once you’ve gotten all the salad ingredients prepped and ready to go, it’s time to make the real dinner.

That same year, my sister’s resolution was to drink more champagne. I’d call Aunt Su around 6, bitching about the onion juice, she’d muse dreamily about the champagne she was drinking for no reason at all, and I’d slam down the phone in disgust.

Although it was a resolution I made with loving intentions, I didn’t keep it. Now I make simple resolutions I can’t screw up.

The most important resolution I make each year is to hug all three of my sons every day. Those of you without children may think this is an easy assignment, but in fact it’s quite challenging, and grows more demanding each year.

When children are toddlers, they are easy to locate and hug. That changes.

Drew, always so quiet, can easily be overlooked in all the excitement, and before you know it the day is over and he’s nowhere to be found. After a brief hunt around the house I’ll find him in his bed, asleep, and I’ll hug him then, but I feel a twinge of guilt when that happens, as a hug is supposed to be a bilateral event. In fact, Drew was the reason I made this resolution in the first place.
I’ve had to interpret “hug” loosely. Porter’s recently been going through a phase where he doesn’t like to be touched, and most hugging requires a minimal amount of touching, unless you resort to the imaginary force-field hug, which will have to do for now.

And last week I was doling out hugs when I located Finn in the basement, drumming. He was way into some Led Zeppelin, so I resorted to sort of scritching him behind the ears like a puppy. He leaned his head against me, indicating he liked it, and never missed a beat, literally.

I’ve also resolved to wake up earlier. This has been easily accomplished by setting my alarm earlier. I purposely planned to “wake up,” not “get up.” Porter and I snuggle in the morning, so while I haven’t been getting more laundry done as a result of this change, we’ve both been listening to more NPR and we’re fully versed on current events.

There’s no law I know of against making purely superficial resolutions. The older I get, the more I see a need to make minor changes that aren’t earth shattering to others, but make me feel better about myself.

This explanation carries with it the risk of TMI*, but I shall plunge ahead. Since last summer I’d been having uncomfortable symptoms which were extremely vague, suggesting a number of conditions, including ovarian cancer, which killed my mom. I’m conscientious about screening; I feel like every week someone’s probing my lady parts and examining my blood. I hied it to the doctor, and was delighted to find that I was not dying, but mortified to learn that I was afflicted with a common condition that rhymes with “Irritable Vowel Syndrome” whch wld b mch mr plsnt.

(Holy Hell! What is it about turning forty that causes everything to begin to break down? Faithful readers will recall that I’d already been advised of my need for bifocals this year, and rejected that suggestion outright.)

In the hopes that the following steps will help me keep my spirits up while the rest of my body continues to break down, I resolved:

to wear more eyeliner


it’s difficult to photograph your own eye

to keep my nails manicured with a bright color

bubble bath

Bubble Bath
the color for debutantes and Republicans!


I’m Not Really A Waitress
less Tiny Kingdom; more me


Bonus points for readers who spy a depressing product in the background

to wear my nice clothes more often

to commit to my haircolor


(Loreal Coleur Experte 6.3 Light Golden Brown)

My theory for the first three resolutions was that drawing attention to healthy parts would divert attention from my less attractive features. Also, life is short, you only live once, etc etc, so what am I saving the dry clean only shirt for? If not now, when?

As to the hair color, at some point a woman should pick one and stick with it. I’ve experimented with everything from platinum to bright red to brunette and all shades in between for thirteen years, which is more time than many drug companies spend developing new drugs. Choosing one shade will simplify my life and I can throw out the other hues I’d still been considering– my work on the outside of my head is done.


What resolutions have you made, or not, and why?


*For women, is there such a thing as Too Much Information? I think not. Why don’t we tell pregnant moms that the first three weeks after the baby comes home will suck donkey balls, and that some moms not only don’t love their infants at first, but are often tempted to throw them out the window because they’re so much damn trouble, and you realize you’re stuck with them for eighteen years, (God willing)?

Why don’t we tell each other that when you’re around forty the shit hits the fan– the affairs start, friends get sick and die, people divorce, and others discover how dysfunctional their families of origin really are?

This might be a whole post in itself, yes?

Anyone want to reveal their dirty laundry? Really– you go first…

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 4:51 pmDeep Thoughts,Spines & Livers & Bones, Oh My!,Suffering for Beauty32 comments  

October 24, 2007

Mourning But Moving On

This Friday, the 26th, is the second anniversary of my mom’s death. Here is the first column I wrote about her death, and “A Blessing” provides a few more details. Here is what I wrote about the occasion last year.

You’ll see that some of these columns have tags under them– you can click on the tag “ovarian cancer” to locate other posts discussing my mom and her disease.

If you live in Alabama and you want to support research efforts for ovarian cancer, you can go to your county license plate office and ask the clerk for a commitment to purchase a special plate demonstrating your support. The plate costs $50, and $41.25 of that goes to the Oncology/Gynecology Department at UAB. This department performed my ovarian cancer risk assessment and is top-notch.

In Jefferson County you can go to the main courthouse or any satellite office and get in the tag line to fill out the paperwork. The $50 is tax deductible. The number to call is 205 856 8815.

You can also donate directly through the Norma Livingston Ovarian Cancer Foundation.

I’d appreciate it if readers in other Alabama counties would use the comments to provide information about the procedure to follow to obtain an ovarian cancer license plate in your neck of the woods. For those of you in other states, if you know of a special way to assist ovarian cancer research, please share. Please limit your causes to ovarian cancer, please.

Although I’ll be helping raise funds for Parkinson’s disease Friday, I’ve set aside some time to meet with my pastor and to think about my mom. As I raise my boys,  I continually see how much I was influenced by her, and I’ll be eternally grateful for that.


Posted by Anne Glamore @ 9:57 amDeep Thoughts,Mom,Ovarian Cancer25 comments  

September 28, 2007

Triathlon Training: Family Endurance

Many of you were entranced with the story of Finn training for his first full-length triathlon, especially when an innocent whiff of sexuality reared its head: the presence of a girl, whose entry into the race prompted Finn to scoff at the idea of participating in the event as part of a relay team. If Allie was going to swim 600 yards, bike 16 miles and run 3 miles by herself, Finn wasn’t going to let the fact that she’d be ahead of him and he’d be staring at her rear the entire race deter him from doing the same. That may have been a motivating factor, actually.

You’ll remember that once Finn decided to compete, Bill decided to devote his spare time to coaching Finn through his training, sacrificing his own participation in the race.

At first the training was hardly noticeable. Bill and Finn would get up early to swim or run; on the weekends they’d take a long bike ride.

As the race drew nearer, their sessions grew longer. I was able to overlook the time they spent going over schedules and strategy as long as it didn’t interfere with my plans.

And then it did. One Sunday Bill and Finn set off on a brick (a bike-run combo) later than I thought healthy, given the temperature, or wise, given my impending weekly run to Publix and subsequent need for strong, energetic males to help unload a van full of groceries. When I pulled in the driveway I was greeted only by Porter and Drew, who are enthusiastic about unloading but less interested in the putting away. Plus, they are careless about egg and light bulb transport.

When Bill and Finn came home I got the usual excuses: a flat tire, extra-hot temperatures. While I knew that these things happen to triathletes in training, I also recognized that perhaps things were getting out of hand. Finn hadn’t started his summer reading or touched his drums in weeks.

We went on our annual beach trip the week before the race, and Bill tried to keep Finn on his training regime. But Finn hadn’t seen his friends all year, there was body surfing to do, a dance contest to organize, and Bill began to question Finn’s commitment to the project.

I didn’t realize how emotionally invested Bill was in Finn’s performance until halfway through beach week, when Bill called me from the other house where the ladies and I were knitting and chatting, to see if Finn needed to go to the hospital. They’d just returned from a brick and Finn was lying on the sofa.

“Honey, I think he needs to see a doctor, quick,” Bill said urgently. “We got off the bike and started the run and he complained he was dizzy and I about had to carry him back to the house. He was having trouble breathing. Maybe it’s a heart murmur, or he’s punctured his lung. Or wait, do you know the symptoms of a stroke?”

I looked at Finn. He was sprawled across the couch, sweaty, closing his eyes, and panting dramatically.

I looked from him to Bill, my soulmate, the man who took pain pills after his vasectomy only because I threatened to stomp his jewels if he didn’t. My lover, who believes hospitals are where you go only when you’re bleeding out or having major surgery.

“Let me check him out,” I said.

I turned to Finn.

“Hey, dude, how late did you stay up last night?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Pretty late.”

“What did you eat for breakfast this morning?”

“I didn’t exactly feel like having much breakfast,” Finn said.

“So exactly how much food went into your belly this morning?” I asked.

“None,” he said sheepishly.

“Did you use your inhaler before your ride?”

“I forgot,” Finn said.

“How about fluids? Did you drink any water or Propel this morning?”

“I drank a little during our ride.”

I tuned back to Bill.

“Honey, you’re being a dumbass,” I told him gently. “This is not a boy with a punctured lung or having a stroke. This is a tired boy who biked and ran on an empty stomach, without using his inhaler or drinking enough water. If you take him to the hospital I am staying here. You two know better than this.”

To his credit, later in the day Bill apologized for overreacting and promised to spend the afternoon NOT thinking about the race. Instead he spent it drinking gin and making googly eyes with me.

It wasn’t the last drama we’d experience before the race.


Next up: The Race Is On (or, How Anne Saves The Day With Her Anal-Retentive First-Aid Kit)

A year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: My Special Club (perfect timing for this one)

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 7:52 amFrolic and Detour: Sports,Googly Eyes: Make Love Not War,Hepatitis C,Spines & Livers & Bones, Oh My!,Triathlons3 comments  

Welcome to the Kingdom

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I'm Anne Glamore, wife, mother, lawyer and blogger. I have three boys, and I'm desperately trying to train them to become Southern gentlemen, but that may be an unrealistic goal. At this point I'd be ecstatic if they'd quit farting at the dinner table. If you're new here, check out the Readers' Favorite Posts below or browse through the Categories. I write about my attempts to teach the boys about peckers and sex (which we call "making googly eyes"), my struggles with hepatitis C and spine surgery, the boys' adventures with fire and pets, my mom's death from ovarian cancer, my love of cooking (with plenty of recipes) and anything else that crosses my mind. Join me on Twitter or StumbleUpon or Email me. I'm happy to speak to your group or club.

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