ammogirl

I was busy last night having all sort of crazy dreams, brought on by surely what could only be the last of the drugs winding their way through my system. While sleeping, of course–not the drugs, me. I had gone to bed late, super late, because I was dumb enough to start a book at 10:32 pm, thinking I would read until 11. Ha ha ha. I don’t know what I was thinking, it was an old favorite and I knew I wasn’t going to put it down. Anyway, I digress…but before I move on, a bit more detouring. While I was getting ready for bed (or “marathon reading session”), a ginormous mosquito eater came in the window, necessitating a quick routine turnaround and also, I skipped peeing. I know that was silly, but it was just so big, and flying around in that big, bouncy, random way mosquito eaters do, and I couldn’t imagine what would happen if it came near me mid-stream. Actually, I could imagine, hence: not peeing.

Whew. Back on track. All of that meant, of course, that I had a raging full bladder all night, of the sort that it was the major theme all my dreams revolved around: me trying to pee and not being able to. The scenarios changed, and the locations, and the people, but through it all, I was searching for a toilet, and when I would find one, could not go. I would turn on showers. Put my hand in sinks. Listen to other people pee (not in a gross way). Still, nothing.

Eventually, I suppose out of desperation, I woke up. And I lay there, thinking a few things, really quickly. First, I thought it was really way too early for me to get up (it was not. it was 9am. see: reading until the weeeeeeeeee hours of the morning). Second, I wondered what had woken me up, and then remembered my dreams (and felt my watermelon bladder) and thought, oh. Then, I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep–you know how you do that, because you really, realllllyy just don’t want to get out of bed? So I rolled over and got comfortable, thinking, just a few more minutes, I’m not going to pee myself…and then right at that moment between awake and asleep, my eyes shot open and I thought, loudly but not outloud, “You’ve done it before.”

Oh. Yeah. THAT.

So I got up and went. And here I am.

Look at that, a whole entry without the word b**b.

Tschuss!!

I’m fine now. See, all I had to do was get it out of my system. FYI, I actually posted a picture of my biopsied boob on my flickr…don’t worry, the nipple is covered up which makes it non-nudity (silly prudish us) so hopefully no one will be offended. Or shocked. But I thought it was cool to see what I was talking about, the markings and all bruising and all that.

You know what really sucks? The fact that it’s my boob that is the problem. Because talking about it to say, my co-workers, who had no idea there was an issue until I suddenly disappeared from a conference for surgery, are now calling me up to inquire about the state of my breasts. Because let me remind you that I work with all men. Men who are not twelve-year-old boys, by any means, but still. Why couldn’t it have been knee surgery or something? I’ve taken to being very direct about it when they call: “So, just calling to see how you are. How’s your, um…the, ahh, erm?” “My boob? My boob is fine, a little sore, bruised, swollen.” Obviously, I give them props for calling, though, instead of totally tip-toeing around the issue like I was trying to do. I guess it’s sort of hard to disguise the fact that I was gone, though, which required an explanation.

The thing is, even taking my last post into consideration, I just don’t want to be very end-of-the-world about this. So I don’t like to really talk about it, because when they call, they get very sympathetic and encouraging and “I’m praying for you” and I just…that sort of embarrasses me. I don’t know why. Of course, again, I’m very grateful they care enough but I don’t like to take so much attention for something that will most likely turn out to be nothing.

Which is hard to believe, seeing as I’ve posted about nothing else BUT this situation for the past five days. Anyway.

I was thinking, though, that I have a problem. See, if it turns out that my lump is cancerous, and of the type that requires chemo (because not all lumps do, you see), I’m concerned about my hair falling out. Because I am not a girl that can get away with wearing hats. Nor fashionable turbans. So I am thinking that I might be screwed. Maybe a wig? Hmm…I’ll think about that.

I wish I could remember what I had wanted to post about…Oh. Thanks, you guys, for listening to all this crap–I totally realize I might be a little one-note lately. The one good thing to come of this is the streak of posts about boobs. Because boobs are always fun.

Tschuss!!

**caveat: I don’t want a pep talk. I don’t want to hear about not dwelling about it. I don’t need anyone to worry, and I don’t want comfort, not for of this particular post. I know the statistics, I know its going to be fine, I know that. But I have to deal with this my way, okay? Not yours. Maybe its dramatic, maybe its negative, I don’t care. Let me write what I want, because writing about it truly makes me feel better.**

I know why they give you the drugs.

Its not for the pain, because while at this point I do still have occasional twinges every now and again, its no worse than…well, I can’t think of anything to compare, but regardless, its not that bad. It certainly doesn’t warrant the quantity and dosage they give you, that’s for sure.

Its not for the pain. They give you drugs because it takes seven days to find out. Because no matter how good the odds are in your favor, no matter how optimistic you and everyone around you remains, when you are completely lucid, its still there.

What if it is?

What if it is bad? What then? And you search the internet, looking for statistics of young women with breast cancer, and you see that its really not that uncommon, and that their story is very similar to yours. They thought the odds were in their favor too. They were healthy too. They were young, with no risk factors. But yet…

Its not that you worry that people won’t love you, because you know they will, even if things are very bad and you lose your health and your hair and your breast it still won’t matter.

Its that you worry that you won’t be there to love them back.

So it doesn’t hurt anymore, and its already starting to heal; the bruising is starting, a faint promise of black and brown and purple, a rainbow in negative. You know you can not take the drugs they gave you and be just fine.  But you decide maybe you should just take them anyway.

Because then, optimistic is easy.

Tschuss!!