This Post, More Important Than It Appears, At Least to Me

Today is mammogram day. In fact, I'm about the leave for the happy place. I'll be back.
And this morning's song was What I Did For Love. From 3 a.m. until I left my house for the mammogram. Did I write about that? I often wake with a song in my head.

I'm back.
Side bar: the mammogram, the technician said it was good. I hope so. I'm a little worried because it didn't hurt as much this time. Still hated that exam, nurse Michelle putting her fingers all over my breasts, from every imaginable angle. Yes, I hate that part.

At the front desk, the young woman, Sarah, asked if my daughter Lola was still the emergency contact. Yes, I said. She said, "I love the name Lola." So do I, of course, so I told her a short version of how Lola got her name. Born on my mother's birthday, my mother Lola.

Then I began to wonder how my mother got her name. How did those two simple farm people from Bloomington, Idaho, find or know and settle on that name for their only child? Lola.  It was 1899, remember.

Side bar:  Samantha is my mother's middle name, for her mother Samantha.

I cannot know the answer about how they came up with Lola, but whatever it is, the event was fortuitous and blessed. These two girls named Lola--one my mother, one my daughter--are beloved and irreplaceable people in my life.

Side bar #3: My name is Alyce Carol. I am known by Carol. That is what my parents called me and that is my name by my choice. It is true that I was called Alyce from first grade through high school graduation. I had no difficulty knowing who I was and no problem with it, that is, after my initial objections in the first grade. But I was Carol at home, and I always knew I was Carol. Now, although I have nothing against the name Alyce, having given it lovingly to my daughter, I do not know myself by that name. It isn't me. It's Alyce.