I've been pre-occupied of late with my favorite subject -- my breasts.
Often I make fun of them because they are absolutely huge. For the past year, I've been living up the alphabet in the H section, though through hard work, I think I've brought them down to a more sensible DDD. Still.
I never minded being big breasted. It got me jobs. It got me dates. But huge breasted is nothing if not disgusting. You cannot buy clothes that fit properly. If you wear something loose, you look like you're a fattie. If you wear something tight, you look like a floosie. Add to that a middle aged face, well, then you look like Ma Kettle. (Though looking at Ma now, I realize she was actually smaller than I am. Sheesh.)
I've become pre-occupied with how much I hate my breasts. They embarrass me. They make me feel ugly. Scott took a beautiful picture of me a few weeks back and I had to ask him to crop it. Here's what it looks like without the crop.
Because of their size, it's nearly impossible to do a breast self-examination, but I do my best.
And on Monday, I will have to face yet another humiliation, a mammogram at the Riverside Hospital. When I called for an appointment, the lady on the other end told me I needed a double appointment because it would take extra time for the radiologist to get it all from various sides and views. Sort of like they were 3D modelling me for some kind of James Cameron flick.
What makes it worse is that I'm going because I found something a few weeks back, a small something that wasn't there before. This frightens me, as I'm sure it would any other woman. Is it something or is it nothing? Well, I know it's something; that's perhaps not the issue. But I can't help but wonder if the something is something.
The first night, I lay awake, paralyzed with fear. I'm a pessimist through and through. While I've been pretty lucky with my health, I am secure in the knowledge that, at 56, the slow slide has begun. It started earlier this year with a diagnosis of high blood pressure, which, despite my best efforts in terms of diet and exercise continues to plague me.
I've had a few days to make some decisions, talked it over with Scott who's been more than supportive.
I believe that a person has to have a plan in case of bad health. A Do Not Resuscitate order, for example. I mean who wants to be a plant for the rest of their life?
I'm also an organ donor since I won't be needing them where I'm going.
If this something turns out to be something, I'll ask my team to get rid of the bitches and rebuild 'em. Give me a little perk.
I'm even prepared to slap in a couple of falsies in my much smaller bra if reconstruction isn't an option.
Maybe that sounds drastic, but I'd prefer being no breasted than to have any chance of getting breast cancer a second time around.
Look on the bright side if there is one. Perhaps I can buy falsies to match my mood or a certain dress. Maybe I can, for the first time in my hormonal life, wear a spaghetti strapped little affair. I could run for the first time without holding my chest. My neck and back would finally stop hurting.
I don't want to dwell on the worst case scenario. You know.
Despite my concerns, I have faith in the system. Thanks to all the people who run, donate, care, breast cancer doesn't have to be a death sentence. Women I know have survived and thrived.
Some of them even say they are grateful to have had it. Gave them a better perspective on life.
That's the ticket.
It's just another challenge along the road, right?
All I know is that I'm pretty grateful that I found it when I did.
But you know what pisses me off? What pisses me off is that the very thing that is meant to give life and nourishment to our children is the very thing that can kill a woman in the end. Oh, Lord what a mystical sense of humor you have.
Oh well, shit happens, right?
Hope for the best, expect the worst.
I'm spending my weekend eating some good food, going to a barbecue and drinking a lot of wine.
Why the hell not, huh?
Monday will come soon enough.
And when it does, let's hope it's nothing.