On Wednesday evening, as I engaged in my secret single behavior, you know, the stuff you do in the bathroom with the door closed. Admittedly, Aaron has caught me a few times and he graciously says nothing, turns on his heals and closes the door. I can sometimes feel his syrupy waves of judgment crashing upon my beaches but mostly I am happy to be left alone to pluck hairs, examine clogged pores, nurse myself, though I only did that once just to see how it tasted. I digress. During Wednesday night's secret single behavior, I noticed a bump on my left breast. It looked like a spider bite and so of course I considered putting the house on the market. After conceding to the fact that I was being a bit dramatic since my skin wasn't even eating itself, I decided to drop it and trot on off to bed.
Next day the lump was harder, more red and definitely more painful. In hindsight, this should have been my first tip off that it wasn't cancer. Still, when all you see is pink ribbons on everything you buy and drive behind, a girl starts to wonder when she'll be the next. So, the thought had been born in my mind. Is this that? Am I going to you know...?
And I tell you, saliency theory is a bitch. As soon as you start to think you have the C word, guess what you hear on the radio, see on the MSN, read on Facebook. Because I am someone who thinks the universe stops what it's doing to give me "signs", advertisements for end of life care are terribly disconcerting when you have diagnosed yourself with C the night before.
I caused such a hurricane in my nervous system, I had no idea who to call. My PCP? The lactation consultant? My gynecologist? Should I just go straight to UCLA and admit myself into a clinical trial? No, no that's a bit much. Breast, that's women's parts so let's start with my gynecologist. When I called the office I was dreading the part where the receptionist asks why I'm making the appointment. "I have a lump in my breast." "I see." Really? You see? You know what, the most important part of your job is to pretend that when I say "I have lump in my breast," I really just said, "It's my birthday!" To which you say, "OK! Great, we can get you in at 3:15. See you then!" I see? What the shit.
Next came the 4-hour Internet search to pre-diagnose myself. I rarely go into doctor's office without a diagnosis in hand. I don't know why I do this since I didn't appreciate when client's did it to me but I watch a lot of Grey's Anatomy and the Internet has pictures so I know what I'm talking about dammit. After several hours, I decided I had a cyst that would need to be aspirated by a surgeon, preferably the surgeon who removed my appendix and preferably without the help of my ex-boyfriend who is/was a surgical assistant and who might kill me if given the chance.
After much anticipation, turns out the lump was a bacterial infection that will go away on its own. Much ado about nothing and when it comes to my health, I love me some much ado about nothing!
He did mention that I may need to get my ovaries removed at 45 but that's 11 years away so I'm going to table that one for now.
Ellis, mom is here to stay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
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