When we left off I was making a Nothing Bad is Happening poster and at my wits end with the contractor who was finishing my third floor. There is progress on both fronts.

While the man I was paying – and a few of his subs – shook their heads and chuckle-snorted about what they saw as the folly of finishing what had been attic for the last 104 years, I thought I was right.  I thought this space, with its amazing light, would provide a good bedroom for my oldest and an office for me.

When he left – after working for nine months on a project he had told me would take three – I walked up to the third floor alone to take it in.  I stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, left hipbone jutting (which is my standard stance for considering rightness of rooms) and knew I was right.  This space makes the whole house work better.

And it makes me work better.  I’d been writing and painting at the dining room table in a room that also has great light and great energy.  But all my mess had to be picked up, pushed aside or put away.  The start and stop of it was affecting my creativity and the constant disarray upset everything else.

We’ve been using the third floor a few months now.  My oldest, who heads to New York City in a couple of weeks to study, settled right in.  He made a mess on the south side; I made mine to the north. (Only my middle, who starts college in September, has a tidy nature.  I admire him for it, but my die is firmly cast.)

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this productive.  I’ve created several new needlepoint canvases, collaborated with Hammerpress to produce the first four posters in what I hope will be a broader collection and, yes, finally taken pictures to post an update here.

Some people wondered if it didn’t make more sense to give the new room to my youngest son, he who sat with me at the dining room one night when his brothers were out and said, “So this is our future.” I think I’ll keep him on the second floor with me.  It’s about time we caught up.

A few weeks ago I noticed on Instagram that Hammerpress was hosting a one-day letterpress poster class.  I messaged it to a friend who texted back, “YAY!” (These are the best types of friends to have.) A few days later we were standing in the back room (where I always want to be) and learning how to set type.

The sign-up form had suggested having some idea of what you wanted to do when you arrived and we both at least sort-of did.

I have a number of regular sayings that I use with my children in predictable situations.  “Healthy people take the stairs,” and things like that. My oldest had suggested his favorite, which turned out to be too long for a beginner project. I regrouped.

I selected type and laid it out and shifted and changed until I had it right-enough.  The very talented team of professionals made gentle suggestions and then showed us how to fill in negative space (a good skill to have), apply the ink and make the prints.

“Nothing bad is happening” is what I say to myself and the people who are close to me when any of us begins to go down the rabbit hole of “what if..” or “maybe then..” or “if this..”  It can also be a good reminder when I start to fret about something like a renovation.

Even when you’re doing something new and working backward, perspective is everything.

Hammerpress is holding regular workshops for both cards and posters.  It’s not difficult, the staff is lovely and I promise you will have a lot of fun.

And, no, I’m not saying that because they paid me, because they didn’t.  It’s just true.

A few people have asked for an update on the third floor renovation (lovingly hashtagged #thirdfloorwalkup on Instagram.) There’s not a lot to tell, unfortunately.  It’s been slow-going and while I’m beginning to despair, I keep reminding myself that nothing is permanent.

In the meantime, I’ve been shopping in the hope that once things are ready we can move right in.  There are narrow stairs up from the second floor and this light from Schoolhouse Electric hangs just over the landing.  In my head (and on my sunporch, which is doing double duty as storage) the room relies on black and white with some red to keep things snappy.

This is the bathroom floor.  (You can see an updated video tour on instagram.)

I fell in love with the Kohler Artifacts Gentleman’s Faucet and there was no turning back. It’s paired with the Kohler Memoirs pedestal sink rather than a vanity so that the bathroom did not feel cramped.  It’s a kooky space.  I’m trying to make it make sense when I can.

The Simone sconces from Schoolhouse Electric elicited a resounding “Yes!” from each boy.  If the contractor had made the wall the height that he had told me that he was making the wall, they would have been swell.  Now I’m afraid they may be too big in the space, but am hoping the mirror – well, the new mirror as the mirror that my contractor assured me would fit, does not – will balance things out.

This aforementioned-non-fitting mirror will find another home, perhaps on the wall just outside the bathroom, as I cannot give him up.  I wish I could say the same for the contractor.

Emtek’s Assa Abloy hardware will finish things up in the bathroom.  If we ever finish up.

One of the advantages of dating a chef is that he has loads of resources of which I was unaware. He’s sent me a couple of images from Food 52 and this ladder will soon hold quilts and blankets for lounging on the TV/gaming side of the third floor (which will also be my oldest’s bedroom when he’s home.)

Their Steel and Wood Rectangular Tables don’t have an exact spot, but they strike me as well-meaning and affable. I’m sure they will fit right in.

Hopefully by next week there will be real progress.  We’re almost there.  I keep telling myself that.  Every week.

I don’t have breast cancer. I did two weeks ago, but I don’t anymore.

When I went in for my regular mammogram at the first of the year the nurse and I did the regular dance of step up, hold your breath, step back. Except after she scanned my left breast, she told me to wait. She wanted to scan it again.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said as she pressed my breast flat against one panel, holding it in place as she lowered the other panel, which ground down the length of my breastbone until the machine met the resistance of the tissue. It could go no further.

“Hold your breath,” she said. There was the high squeal of the machine, then release.

“I’m so sorry,” said the nurse.

“Why would you be sorry?” I asked her.

“I know it’s uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about my being comfortable. Just take the best picture,” I reassured her.

“You’d be surprised how many women tell me they don’t get regular mammograms because it hurts.”

I’ve done this every year for over ten years. The doctors and nurses watch me closely. My mother died of breast cancer at 52. Several years ago a spot on one of my scans looked funny. I went back for a biopsy, which turned out to be fine. I got the news while I was having lunch with a friend in her kitchen. She opened a bottle of champagne and I went to the 1^st grade program a little tipsy and very relieved.

This time it wasn’t exactly fine. My scan showed calcifications. The radiologist, who looked as if he were from central casting – tall, silver haired, glasses, experienced, but not too old – pointed to the screen. The image, charcoal background with my breast visible in lighter grey, showed two areas with sweeping dotted arches that looked as if someone had spilled powdered sugar across a soapstone counter as they spooned it from container to cup.

“This one I’m not worried about,” he said. “This one,” the slender tip of his silver pen made an arc over a series of the tiny white dots on the screen, ”I’m fifty percent worried about.”

I looked at the screen and turned back to him.

“I know you know what you’re looking at. If it’s cancer, just tell me.”

His gaze was steady.

“I don’t know that it’s cancer. But we should biopsy it.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I think it could be ductal carcinoma in situ.”

He and the nurses went on to use terms like, “pre-cancer,” “non-invasive” and “stage zero.” I felt as if I had some sort of cancer-lite. A bother, but no big deal.

One week and one procedure later as I left the room where the doctor had performed the biopsy, the nurse said, “Don’t worry. Ten years ago they discovered my cancer the same way. You’re going to be fine.”

She didn’t realize that until that moment I wasn’t worried. I thought I was fine. Fine, as it turns out, can have a broad definition.

I did have ductal carcinoma in situ. In the seven weeks since the original mammogram, I’ve had a biopsy, out-patient surgery, meetings with a medical oncologist and radiologists and an outpouring of love and support from my partner, family and friends that was not a surprise, but for which I am incredibly grateful.

Last night I was going through my mother’s medical records regarding her breast cancer following an appointment with my medical oncologist. There were details that I remembered and details that I had not retained. There were similarities in her cancer and mine. We were both diagnosed in our early 50s. I was shaken to see that her tumor was in the exact spot that mine had been. “Left breast, 3:00 position.”

This was unsettling. But there were also dissimilarities.

My mother’s tumor was 4 cm. Mine, which could not be felt, was 1.5 cm.

My mother’s cancer had metastasized. Two of her lymph nodes tested positive. My margins were clean.

My mother had a complete mastectomy. I had a lumpectomy, the results of which, even just a few weeks later, are minimal.

My mother’s prognosis was tentative. Mine is entirely positive.

My mother died just over a year after her diagnosis. I will have four weeks of daily radiation and take Tamoxifen for the next five years, not to treat my cancer – I don’t have cancer now – but as preventative measures against recurrence.

There are other lifestyle, and possibly biological, differences between my mother and me. But I believe the single most significant difference is annual mammograms.

My very early stage breast cancer was diagnosed through a regular annual mammogram. There is every reason to believe that I am fine because we caught this so early.

Please, get your mammogram. The discomfort, both physical and emotional, is far less than the physical and emotional toll of the discovery of an invasive tumor.

I’m fine. Get your mammogram.

The third floor (which is almost sheetrocked and causing a lot of excitement around here) has a bit of a different slant than the rest of the house.  (And I’m not only referring to the pitch of the ceiling.)

My rooms have always had a modern this, a contemporary that, but they do seem to end up looking like cottages furnished from rummage sales no matter what my original intent.

The boys’ rooms are a better blend. They don’t allow chintz, of course – or rusty things, for that matter – so their spaces are more mod than mom.

Since the third floor will house my sometimes-home oldest, it makes sense that it has a more modern sensibility.  Still, I find that in the hardware and lighting I’ve ordered so far I want much cleaner lines.  The plan for the space relies heavily on black and white and the texture of wood.

Which is why I’m drawing so much inspiration from New York-based designer, Shawn Henderson.

Warm comfort combined with cool sophistication is always a winning combination in my book.

I’ve followed Henderson’s career from the beginning and have always been a fan, but I’ve noticed recently that every single thing I see of his on Instagram and in print is a complete and total home run.

I just hope he doesn’t mind my stalking.  I still have a kitchen to do someday.

All images courtesy of Mr. Henderson.