My life as a supermodel

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.
Ugh.
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.
Now this.
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.

What Bell isn't telling you about Fibe TV

Update: This week, we switched back to Rogers after spending far too long using Bell's crappy television service. For those with Bell, read and weep. For those considering Bell, think twice even if you hate Rogers. RS I've always been an early technology adapter. I had a Betamax. That tells you everything (if you're over 50 at least). My first computer was a "Portable". It weighed 40 pounds and I had to lug it around town on a gurney. I've been through probably 15 computers in my lifetime. Apple is the best. It's also too expensive so I have a piece of shit HP, the one I'm writing this blog on. I've had cable, internet and now Netflix. American Netflix . That's how far ahead of the curve I am. I get all the newspapers for free. How? I disabled my cookies so they can't track me when I'm on the newspaper sites. Even the New York Times hasn't cottoned on to that trick. Hahaha. That will be a fifty buck consulting fee. Bein...

Ashley Simpson: Please sign this petition to help her family

Those who read this space regularly know that my family is frantic with worry about my cousin, Ashley Simpson , who has been missing 40 days now. Both her boyfriend and her landlord reported that she had left with no money, no car, no resources from her Salmon Arm, B.C. home after a domestic dispute over money. Since then, there has been no trace of her. The RCMP now considers this a homicide investigation, but the family has not heard any updates from them in more than three weeks. Just after she disappeared, her father, relatives and friends set out from St. Catharines on a long trek to B.C. to find her. They all left their work, and their lives, intent on finding Ashley who had always kept in touch. It was completely out of character for her to lose touch. Her parents have been consumed by worry. They have been unable to work, and are having a hard time functioning. As a result, they are now relying on donations from family and friends to keep the wolf from the door...

The strange case of Greg Etue

I got out of the daily news reporting game, I'll admit, because I didn't have the stomach to cover the many sad stories that came across my desk. I remember clearly once when I had to call an RCMP sergeant after his young son blew his head off with the officer's service revolver. "Please," he pleaded. "I really can't talk right now." "It was your gun, is that correct?" He slammed down the receiver. I was ashamed of myself. People have a right to some privacy in difficult times like that. I also used to hate having to go to the door of a dead child's home and jostle the competition for a picture. Really, it felt more like ghoulism than journalism. That said, I still believe that these stories must be told in an honest and forthright fashion with all the facts and none of the flourish and emotion that is all the rage in reporting these days. Over the past two years, we, in this community, have been treated to a lot o...

Rose's Cantina

Search This Blog