"If you know, you know. Or Maybe you don't know."

"DoDo, (our pet name for our maternal grandmother) do you want to see a picture of the baby?" I hold the flimsy paper before her that has the gray and white swirls that are supposed to look like a baby, but look more like, well, gray and white swirls. She glances at it, seemingly unimpressed, and says "I think I like it better the way things were when I had my babies....no tests, no pictures, you just delivered your baby and got what you got." Feeling slightly hurt that she didn't participate in my excitement, I proceeded to tell her all the amazing things that could be done by having a glimpse into the before-hidden world of a baby not yet born. She listened to me, gave me an obligatory smile, and undoubtedly carried on with her opinion that less was more.

That was forty years ago. The ultrasound that I had been given with my first baby supposedly showed that the baby was most likely perfectly normal and healthy in every way; and was also most likely, a boy. Our five pound baby girl came home from the hospital wearing a blue sleeper. Today expectant mothers can walk into any strip-mall in town and find an office that will take an ultrasound of their baby; even a 3-D image shown in warm tones that make the baby seem so close you can almost smell it's heavenly scent.

Feeling under the weather most of last month, I found myself going to bed much earlier than usual. I'd prop myself up in bed to be able to breathe better and also to prop my phone on the pillow resting on my lap. I browsed "Old black and white movies" or "Movies from the '60's and '70's". By the time I'd browsed through everything that sparked my interest (and of course required extra money to rent it before viewing), I was too tired to watch anything anyway and fell into a NyQuil induced sleep; the worst sort in my opinion except for the fact that I could breathe freely from both nostrils at the same time.

When I woke up this morning I told Dave I was about 75% better and ready to do normal things such as, not flop from the couch to the chair back to the couch; or also to not give him hourly updates on how crappy I'm feeling and ask him why do I feel so bad and why isn't the sun shining and why can't I just be normal again. They say men make the worst sick people. They are wrong. I am the worst sick people. Very complain'ey. Very whine'ey. Not very demure.

Dave insisted I make an appointment with the doctor., also known as "The Good Doctor", a nick-name we use for our neighbor that lives just a couple of cabins up the hill from us. He and his wife Katie are slightly older than us (meaning they are also young and spry); are also a second marriage and work together, she being his nurse and in their spare time love to sing the old 70's classics with a small band they've formed with a few friends. I tell them I'd love to sing in their band too, but that my nose is constantly runny and stuffy and I sound like a child with a perpetual cold. I drive into town and visit their office which also feels a bit like the decor is a bit of a throwback to at least the 90's. Katie takes my weight, my blood-pressure and also a couple vials of my blood, then does an x-ray of my sinuses. The good doctor comes back into the examination room and tells me I have a sinus infection and prescribes me something to clear it up.

When I get home I put my little pill bottle on the shelf next to the kitchen sink which is one of my favorite places to hang out so I won't forget a single dose. Breathing clearly out of both nostrils is also another favorite past-time of mine. It's the little things in life.

Day after day I diligently take my tiny pills, one in the morning and one in the evening; no dairy two hours before or two hours after. Never have I obsessed more over a tall glass of cold milk more than when being told that I can't have it.

Two weeks went by, and as I took the last of my medicine, no matter how I tried to convince myself I felt better, I did not. "Let's get a CT scan scheduled of your sinuses and your lungs as well just to rule out pneumonia".

With a pricey scan that merely went toward our insurance deductible and showed that my lungs were nice and clear and that indeed my sinuses were not, the good doctor concluded that he would like to refer me to an ear, nose and throat specialist rather than just treating my stuffy, runny nose with different medications. That's my kind of doctor.

Now sitting in a chair of an office that I know is brand new because we've watched it being built off of Highway 40 just outside of town, I marvel at the modern decor that is very much not from the 70's, 80's or 90's. I make small talk with the nurse and tell her that she is almost a blonde version of my beautiful daughter-in-law Megan. I show her a picture of Megan on my phone and she blushes a little and says "Wow, that's such a compliment!" When she's not looking I glance at her fingers and see no rings on any of them. I have three single sons, and you just never know. And then I think to myself, "I am becoming that older woman that says things that would likely embarrass my children." And then I think, "Hmph....I really don't care; nothing ventured, nothing gained."

The cute nurse leaves the room and the ENT comes in and introduces himself. I've already forgotten his name, but I do remember I have another appointment at his office this next week. He suggested that I meet with an allergy person that does little allergy skin scratchy tests and that we get to the root of the runny/stuffy nose sitch. He then took a little metal tool and looked into my runny/stuffy nose. "You have a very deviated septum. Have you ever broken your nose or badly injured it?" I reply "What?! Never!" He shows me the CT scan of my sinuses and says, "The right side is about ninety percent blocked." "Well, what do I do about that?" I ask. "It can usually be fixed with an outpatient procedure that takes about twenty minutes, but let's start with the allergy testing first and take it one step at a time."

I stop at the front desk where my future daughter-in-law was sitting (kidding! I'm kidding!) to grab another tissue and schedule my next appointment.

When I got home and gave Dave the run-down of the events of the morning, he asked me what I'd do if I end up being allergic to Freya. I told him that I guess I'll have to live with a runny stuffy nose for the rest of my life because I've never known life without a kitty and he can just not talk about that to me ever again and that maybe I'm just allergic to winter. I call for Freya and scoop her up and tell her to ignore what her father just said.

This week the powers that be said we could turn our clocks forward an hour, so now after a week a feeling like we've traveled to some foreign country and have jet lag, I realized the sun wouldn't set until after 7 PM and so I could take an evening hike; albeit a cold, windy hike. The first hike of 2026. When I got home I sat on the deck for a bit and watched the sun set. I thought back to a couple of summers ago when we hiked down to the creek that runs along the edge of our property and I had stepped on a fallen tree branch and it stabbed into my leg. That was another trip to the E.R. and another very expensive CT scan to make sure all the pieces of the tree were removed from my calf.

My grandmother was right about a lot of things. And I think sometimes it's better to not know every single thing about every single thing. The only ultrasound I ever got again after the first inaccurate one back in 1986 was in 2002 when after we'd had one more baby girl and then boy after boy after boy after boy. We thought we'd go ahead and solve the mystery earlier rather than later since our two teenage girls were likely rooting for team pink as girls are prone to do. Natalie and Elisabeth both having been invited to this gender reveal moment stood on either side of the bed; the technician moved the wand around on my belly, "It looks like this baby will be another little brother!" I quickly looked at my girl's faces. They gave each other a little "aaahhh..." and then looked back at the screen and smiled. They loved their little brothers and all babies are fun to bathe, cuddle, rock, and hold. Of course we can't imagine life without our caboose, Bronson. And he even got to come home from the hospital in a little blue sleeper suit. Probably the same one handed down from all the other siblings including his oldest sister.