There's been a lot of thoughts running around in my head. I'm not a writer but I wanted to try and get them down during this whole progress. I'm starting a bit late. Already many mammograms and one surgery into the damned thing, but you got to start somewhere, so I'm going to try and play catch up for a minute here.
Early December, I go to the gyno to renew my birth control prescription. A routine enough procedure. I like my gyno,late 40's maybe, tall dark, not Teen Pop sensation good looking but certainly easy on the eyes. For some reason I've always preferred male doctors. Especially when it comes to looking at my vagina. I suppose, really if you think about it, as a (sightly overactive) heterosexual sexual women, I'm pretty damned comfortable with a man peering between my spread thighs. Going through his normal series of check ups, he thinks he feels something in my left breast. And thus begins the ordeal.
I have an intense aversion to the medical industry. I don't like tests, I don't like xrays, the waiting rooms, the white coats, and always get in some sort of scuffle with the pharmacy counter at walgreens. So it took me a month or two to even make an appointment.
Hung over and probably extremely stoned I drug myself into metro imaging for my first mammography experience at the tender age of 29. Annoyance in my voice and attitude all over the place, I was strung through the procedure of breast torture.
Each time looking deeper and squeezing harder, contorting my upper body into variously positions as a 190 lb non english speaking nurse pressed against my body and pulled my breasts into various shapes and angles. Its as if they are made of silly puddy and we were transferring the sunday comics onto the underside.
The mystery "lump" my doctor thought he felt turned out to be nothing. The left breast, the bigger stronger, healthier of the two was given cancer clearance. The submissive right breast just along for the ride, suddenly and unexpectedly became the target of concern. Not a lump, something you could have only seen on the xray. They've found calcification! 98% percent of the time these things are nothing.
But the odds are never in my favor.
I do most of my crying in the car. On the way home from these procedures. When i'm alone, and I can turn the music to 10. By the time I arrive home I've conceded to death, dry my eyes, say "yo whats up" to my vagabond artist freeloading houseguest/roommate, and head towards the beer in the fridge. A serum that medicates but hardly solves any problems.
More appointments, more tests, a biopsy, a very purple boob, and then a phone call on a weekend morning while i'm spread out on my down comforter enjoying the sun beaming through my front window. I'm a terrible listener. Ad the phone to the equation and divide by news you don't want to hear anyway. And you get very little actual information out of the phone call. From it I took: I'm fucked. Something about stage 0, and lots of "its so good we found this now" Followed by a when do you want to schedule the surgery.
Surgery? WFT. no. thanks, I'll pass.
So I ignored shit for as long as possible. Fighting off phone calls from my father, mother, and grandmother, insisting I tell them more details and "push" to move things forward. I stopped answering most of their calls. And learned that about the impressive guilt involved with letting a call from your grandma go straight to voice mail.
So the thoughts in my head sort of goes as follows.
Fuck this.
Its my right to do nothing.
I'm divorced. have no kids. The only guy i actually want to hang out with is either retarded, or wants nothing do with me.
No one will ever want me now.
I need to loose twenty lbs and get a chin job, not waste money on a problem that is not even bothering me.
Fine I'll call the damn doctor.
I just want to get this over with so everyone stops asking about it and fucking telling me they are there for me. When actually how? Are you holding me at night saying everything is going to be ok, and are you lining up men who are into mastectomy scars to fuck me after all this is said and done. Are you helping me with the endless bills that are being pushed through the mail slot every after noon. Are you making my roommate sober up and get the fuck off the couch and make some money so I don't have to cover his half of the rent. I think no. no. you are just saying that shit to make yourself feel like you are a caring individual. so fuck off.
Of Course you can't say that. You have to make it seem like things are going to be okay. And you can't tell them you'd rather die than loose a nipple. Or endure the pain of massive reconstructive surgery. I'm strong, sure. but not that strong. And my weakest points are braided very tightly with my body image. My breasts are somewhere around a 34 F. They have driven and defined my personality and the world's perception of me. For good or bad. for my entire life.
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For what it's worth, I'd still sleep with you. I've been with a woman that had breast reduction surgery. They look different but they're still boobs.
ReplyDeleteYou won't need to lose 20lbs either.
Personally, as an anonymous poster that you'll never guess, I think Jenn is worth it to the world to have around for many years to come. I annually support the breast cancer foundation (whichever one does the walk) and would be willing to donate to a fund if you created one to help with the expenses.
thank you. that was a much appreciated comment.
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