Lumpy with a chance of cancer
February 8th, 2010 by Dawn Summers“It’s probably nothing,” she says washing her hands. I close the flimsy paper gown and involuntarily begin to swing my legs against the exam table.
“At your age, many women develop these kinds of lumps in their breasts and the vast percentage of the time, it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
Of course, the problem with the phrase “it’s nothing,” is the it, right?
Nothing is nothing.
Nothing’s not an it and nothing is certainly not a thumb sized breast lump.
Furthermore, the problem with her telling me not to worry is that the last time she patted me on the back and said “wow, you’re in the best shape I’ve ever seen you,” I ended up doubled over in pain at an emergency room in Harlem, spiking a 102 degree fever while I waited for someone to suck my gall bladder out through my belly button.
Credibility? Shot!
Truth is, I probably should have come in weeks ago, closer to when I discovered the nothing. But I figured if it was nothing, it’d go away and actually be nothing.
I would live my life! Lump be damned!
And then my poker skills, such as they were, distintegrated to disasterous financial results. The associate position that everyone thought I’d be perfect for fell through because the Hiring Partner really wanted someone with strong writing skills! “Me fail, English? That’s unpossible.”
Then the car, the laptop, the earring and now we’re all caught up.
The universe and my mother’s incessant yelling would most definitely NOT let me get on with the business of living. So, here we are at that first step towards the business of dying.
Honestly, I never thought I’d live past 33. I was a teenage Catholic evangelist, like super serious two masses a week, bible studying, teaching cathecism to the youth and attending international Catholic youth gatherings teenage Catholic evangelist. An only child, with an absent father, born to a woman who was by all accounts infertile? I didn’t have a martyr complex; I had THE martyr complex.
When they wouldn’t let me on the altar the Easter Sunday that the Bishop was visiting our church, because I was a girl, oh, the struggle not to shout “this is my father’s house!”
You have issues, you have issues.
So, when I got super sick at 32, I wasn’t at all surprised.
I knew it!
I got better, but I still tread carefully. One more year.
And then bam, Carlos the ticking time bomb! But they caught it…I was…um…fine.
2009.
The year I did ordinary things and lived an ordinary life. The year I planned things and splurged on stuff. The year nothing was cut out of me! Ah, 2009, if you hadn’t taken Michael Jackson, we could’ve had something real special.
But in my wildest dreams I never imagined I’d go out like this. Not that I wanted any fatal condition, but couldn’t it be something more manly? Like roid rage or a presidential affliction? Like GSW to the head? Heck, even cruxifiction is an oldie, but a goodie. I watch football, and play poker, I smoke cigars and drink whiskey for breakfast!
Breast cancer? The damn hell ass pink ribbon disease!
PINK!
And not even awesome neon Liberace sneakers pink, POWDER.
POW. DER.
Never mind the weeks ahead of lady doctors talking about lady parts and lady issues. Waiting rooms filled with other women (okay, and that really hella unlucky dude that represents the 1% of male breast cancer victims.) talking about their lumps and tumors and reproductive options.
I may survive the cancer or whatever it is, but I’m pretty sure the blood loss from ripping my own ears off might get me.
Ah, a noble Van Gogh death.
I smile. The doctor hands me precriptions for various “gram” tests.
She hands me referrals to two breast doctors and says I should check what their hours are.
Breast doctor? That just sounds made up. Like a pickup line in a horrible Vince Vaughn comedy.
I decide against voicing this opinion aloud.
She says that the nothing will likely have to be removed, but they’d wait to find out the full extent of what we’re dealing with before scheduling any surgery, so everything can be handled at once.
Hmm. From nothing to everything… that was quick.
Eh, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. It doesn’t have to be cancer. Could just be lumpy boobs, which aside from possibly being the worst poker nickname ever, might not be so bad.
A few corrective surgeries and I could have a whole new set! Not for nothing, but if it gets me the career she’s had, I’m getting the ones Jennifer Love Hewitt got!
Or maybe Britney’s.
Ooh, could I get fitted with semi automatic weapons like the Austin Powers’ bots?
I wonder if there’s a catalogue.
The doctor is staring at me now.
Uh oh, she probably asked me something really important and I’m mentally picking out boobs.
“Well, Dawn? Do you have any questions? What are you thinking?”
Me?
Nothing. Definitely, nothing.