Wednesday, December 13, 2006


First off - thank you so much for the comments all of you left yesterday. Just knowing there are friends and strangers alike taking the time to leave a note helped scrape me off the ceiling a bit. This is where things are right now; I went down to the radiology place yesterday and got lefty naked and ready where she was pulled and squeezed and smashy smashed 4 separate times then covered in goo and ultrasounded. She was very upset so later I bought her something shiny to make up for it.

All the boob wranglers were very nice, which is not the norm but much appreciated, and since they all knew why I was there kept asking me how I was doing. Such a refreshing change from being barked at by Nurse Ratchet to get naked and put this recycled from tumblweeds paper square the size of a McDonald's napkin over your lady parts only to be talked over and not to then whisked out of the office in 30 seconds but not after we try to stab you with a rusty fork 9 times to get a blood sample and if you're really lucky we'll call you fat to your face. So yesterday, although not fun and quite unsettling, wasn't too bad.

Unfortunately the ultrasound chick said my boob was too dense for her to see anything which was taken the wrong way and my stressed-out little sweater muffin got all offended at being called stupid and lashed out at the tech, punching her in the face getting that gel in her eye and the tech screamed "it burns it burns" and we tried to hightail it out of there because lefty has already had trouble with the law from that dowtown nightclub dancing in the window escapade which really wasn't her fault because what bar has giant windows facing the street anyway? They practically beg for a flashing then we all realized that breastzilla had taken the label "dense" the wrong way and we all had a good laugh.

As you can see, I'm trying very, very, VERY hard not to make anything of this before there is a this, but in my circumstance it's difficult because dammit, here we are again. A routine test has gone awry. They see something funny(my boob says 'funny, ha ha, like a clown? Do I fucking amuse you?') and need to investigate further.

This happens to me all the time. I've had countless MRI's and CT's and X-rays for all kinds of things in the past 3 years, especially 2006, Year of the Scan. Thyroid, lungs, head, neck, foot, etc. All to take a better look at the wheezing, the creaking, the aching, the hope it's shrinking stuff. And I'm always slightly bracing myself for the possibility that they'll find more than a little arthritis on my butt or a giant gas bubble in my guts, or more nasty thyroid cells trying to make pathetic a come-back like those boys from Van Halen. Dudes! JUST SAY NO! But this last thing, this one has stopped me in my tracks, for a moment.

When you've already been delivered the news that you have cancer, it's very hard to put that out of your head whenever things aren't perfectly normal. Normal for me, anyway which really means something added to my less than normal every day goings on. Every migraine makes me think it's a newly formed tumor pressing on my optic nerve. My throat has a tickle and I immediately go to lung cancer. That ingrown hair? I don't even want to think about it.

You see, once your body chemistry has gone all kerflooey you never quite trust it to behave again. The kind of cancer I had was extremely rare, has a great success rate but a 30% recurrence rate. All of that I can handle. I know what it will mean if it comes back and what I'll have to do and I'll manage. But when one of the (fucker asshole) doctors (that I don't see anymore because I don't think I'd be able to control my urge to tear his balls off with my bare hands) leaned back in his chair and smuggly said to me, "You know, your chances of getting another kind of cancer has just gone up 25%", Well, I think I went into a permanent state of panic attack that I've never, ever be able to shake off.

When the breast center called me Monday night, which they've never done before, my mind went there. You know where there is. That place in your head that remembers what it feels like to be given life-altering crap-ass news. The dark corner where the psycho clowns wait in the shadows for the right moment to jump out and flash their flesh-tearing teeth at you. The space in your brain reserved for terror. And I can't help it. I can't help being fucking freaked out because this doesn't feel routine. This one is new and worrisome and scary as fuck.

I live in a constant state of paranoia. It takes different forms and has varying degrees, but it's always there like a question mark bouncing around in my mind. Probably nothing, maybe something, definitely a thing, perhaps not. Bouncing bouncing bouncing. Like a god damn Tigger on crack and Nyquil. I hate that guy. And he doesn't share his drugs.

Most of the time I can keep it under control with chocolate and living my very good life and trying not to to let too much of my day spent being obsessed. But it's how I'm wired and I'll thank anyone not to fucking tell me how to feel about any of it (specifically, stupid co-worker). If you're going to start any sentences with "you just have to" I will not be responsible for my actions. My very painful to your person actions. And I understand the well-meaning "It's probably nothing"'s but those words fall on my deaf ears because once you bank of that being the case, and one time it's so far from the case, they don't work any more.

If you walked across a frozen lake that looked rock fucking solid, imagining inches upon inches of solid ice under your feet then you took an innocent step only to feel everything split and crumble under you with a sickening crack and your next realization being you're are falling to your possible death as you felt the freezing water rush over you, sucking the breath right from your chest rendering you momentarily paralyzed with fear and shock, you'd be pretty fucking wary of ever taking a stroll like that again, wouldn't you? I'll stay on the shore, thank you very much.

But people say, awww, come on, what are the odds that'll happen again? It's safe! I'm sure it's frozen this time. You still want to stick out a toe and take that chance? Maybe, and I think it's important to not miss out on those kinds of adventures, but I bet you won't ever forget what happened that one time. Your body will remember what it felt like to have the world fall out from under you. And you are no pussy for being careful and being prepared, just in case.

And that's what I'm doing. I hope it's nothing. I hope I'll laugh about this in a week and say "whew" all that worrying for nothing. But I'm also getting ready for another battle I might have to fight. I'm being realistic and dusting off my warrior gear. I need to handle this my way.

Just in case.

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