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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

The Sunday before last a lump was found in what the boyfriend usually calls my "funbag on the right" (although let me tell you, when there's a lump found inside, the bags suddenly become a lot less fun than they were before the lump). A lump is a scary, scary thing. Any time someone says "breast lump," it's like calling Fire! or Bomb! or Rape!. Breast Lump! is one of those phrases that automatically evokes fear no matter how irrational or insignificant the actual lump may be. So I've got a lump or rather I had a lump, I don't even think it's there any more, which I'm going to have smooshed into x-ray submission tomorrow (X-ray Submission by the way, great band name). I'd like to say I'm totally ok with having a mammogram. I'd like to be all cool and say that I've read the breast cancer statistics and I understand that there's a ridiculously small chance that I have anything serious and I'm not freaking out about getting a mammogram at 24. I'd like to say that. Love to say that in fact. But if I said that, it would be about as true as this one time when I was a freshman in high school and my class had to bring in "something meaningful" and I forgot, so I bought an orange juice from the soda machine and tried to make up a story about how orange juice saved my life when I was six and how I've hung on to this very special can of OJ my whole life and my teacher just looked at me and said in front of the whole class, "That's the worst lie I've ever heard." Saying I'm totally cool would be a lie of orange juice proportion.

So admittedly, I'm not totally cool about things, but I'm not going crazy (anymore) either. I was going crazy all the way up until I visited family this past weekend. Last Monday (you know, the day after Lumpy McGoo was discovered hiding in the rolling hills of Couch), my ancient aunt (94!) had a massive heart attack, officially died I believe 3 different times, and somehow has managed to recover to the exact state she was in prior to having a heart attack. The woman is like an ox, well, an ox who's lost the vast majority of its sight, hearing, taste, smell, friends, relatives, continence, and overall coherence. Seeing her in a nursing home, not knowing where in hell she is, who any of her remaining family are, or why she's in so much pain was coming face-to-face with a situation I fear far more than breast cancer. In between cleaning up her roommate's diarrhea and trying to flush my aunt's eye to keep it from sticking shut, I resolved that tomorrow I will go in like an adult, have my boob smashed, and probably drink a slurpee afterwards, thankful that I can see, hear, taste, smell, and not shit on myself through every scary moment.


At 11:38 PM, Blogger ducklet said...

the rolling hills of Couch? damn you for making me laugh when i should be sending you good vibes instead.

if i ever find Lumpy McGee in my left fun-sack, i may ask you to describe the whole situation.

At 9:43 AM, Blogger muse said...

Sending you all sorts of healthy good vibes!

At 7:30 PM, Blogger deanna said...

Sending lots of good thoughts your way....


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