Where I am, it was the kind of day that makes you feel good to be alive. It was sunny and everything was melting (thank you Jebus!) and it was +2! I ran some errands today wearing nothing but my TWoP bunnyhug! Can you believe it? Oh grow up! Of course I was wearing pants! (Although if I had my way, we wouldn't have to. Don't you hate pants?)
My errands included going to the doctor's office. I only recently discovered that it's not kosher to see your pediatrician when you're as old as I am. Seriously, did you see that episode of Friends where the gang is embarrassed for Ross because he still sees his childhood doctor? They acted like he was dunking newborn babies into vats of wet cement and throwing them off an overpass or something. Sheesh!
I had no idea this was such a big deal. I've been seeing Dr. Stewart ever since...well, the man delivered me while wearing a dirty jean jacket, leather motorcycle chaps, and a big pair of rubber gloves. (Long story short, I was two weeks premature and he was out riding his hog when my mom went into labour. He came in just in time and went to scrub up, but the nurse said there wasn't time, slipped a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves on him and he basically just caught me.)
He's been my doctor ever since. If I get sick in a different city, I go to a clinic. I'm not picky. I suppose if I ever stay in one place long enough to put down any roots, I'll find a new doctor, but right now, he suits my needs just fine. I've been putting of this doctor's appointment for a few weeks because I wasn't sure if my condition even warranted a trip to the ol' sawbones.
About a month ago, I was taking a shower and noticed a tiny lump on my left breast. I wasn't too freaked out because sometimes, during a menstrual cycle, the breasts are sensitive. That's why they advise doing the self-exam the day after your period. I thought I had maybe imagined it, or it was an ingrown hair or something. I made a mental note to check again the week after my cycle ended.
A week later and it was still there, only more pronounced. And to make matters worse, I was standing in front of my mirror watering a plant when I noticed another lump, this time in my right breast.
Now, lest you think I'm some sort of free-wheeling, granola-eating, new-agey, crystal-rubbing, hippie who waters her plants in the nude because it doesn't traumatize the plants as much or something, let me assure you that I was fully dressed. But, uh, it was cold, if you get my drift. And you kinda notice a lump when it's right beside your nipple, okay? So I check. Yep. It's a lump. Small, but big enough to show through a thin bra and a thin t-shirt.
While I have my shirt off, I decide to check my other breast. The first lump is still there. I calmly and rationally tell myself that this is no big deal and that it's probably nothing, but that I should maybe get it checked out, just to be on the safe side.
Ha! Kidding! I freak out, of course. I yelp when I look at the lump on my right breast. How could I not have noticed this?! It doesn't look like something that would go undetected. It's not like I wear my cleavage up to my nose or anything, but when you wear a D-cup, your breasts don't escape your notice very often. Have I been shutting my eyes while dressing? That might explain that diamond patterened shirt I bought awhile ago.
Where was I? Oh yes, freaking the hell out. I poke the lump a few times and squeeze the tissue around it while my mind races. It's kinda red and the skin around it looks a little flaky. It's dry here. That must be it. So I slather on some lotion.
Two days of vigilent lotion application later and it's still there. Only now it's harder and bigger. Christ! It's like the lotion fed it or something!
Now, I'm relatively young, and breast cancer doesn't usually strike women who are in their mid-twenties, but an episode of 90210 was running through my head. In this episode, Brenda finds a little lump on her breast and she and her mom go to the doctor and she has to have a biopsy and all sorts of craziness ensues. In the end, it turns out to be a benign cyst and there's nothing wrong. But Brenda was only 18. And when I called Gripper to tell her about my lump, she says she knew a girl who died of breast cancer when she was 19.
Adding fuel to the fire of my freak out is the fact that my mom had ovarian cancer and cancer of the womb at a relatively young age which resulted in the removal of many important reproductive organs. Cancer touches every branch on my family tree including both my parents (I only discovered this Christmas that my father underwent surgery for testicular cancer last year.) my grandfather on my mother's side, my aunt on my dad's side, and several great aunts and uncles from both families have died of various forms of cancer. In my world, strange lumps and bruises are cause for a trip to the doctor. So I booked an appointment and told my mom and she didn't seem overly concerned.
"It could be anything dear. At your age, it's probably nothing."
Feigning non-chalant, I tossed off a "Yeah, I'm not too worried. Just thought I should get it checked out. It's probably nothing. Probably an ingrown hair or something."
"Yes, it could be a cyst," Beat. "But it's probably nothing."
I hate the phrase "probably nothing." I find that instinct, while not everything, is very important.
So I went to the doctor today in the beautiful, warm, sunshine, thinking "I really hope I don't get any bad news today. It's such a nice day."
Once in the office, I go through the annoying clerical details of explaining why I'm using Manitoba insurance even though I'm living in Saskatchewan. "I might go back" I tell them. This is a lie. I'm not going back, but I am lazy. And for a person who moves as much as I do, it's a pain in the ass to switch insurance all the time.
I sit in a hard, plastic waiting room chair. I turn the volume down on my discman because apparently Ida and Cliff in the chairs across from me don't appreciate the musical stylings of Elvis Costello like I do. I flip the pages of the new Maclean's and make a mental note to renew my subscription. I clear my throat. I tap my feet. I stop tapping my feet after Ida glares. I do my best to ignore the screaming infant whose mother is also doing her best to ignore him. I rummage through my bag for some gum. I stop rummaging after the third pointed "ahem!" from Ida. Or was it Cliff? Finally, they call my name.
I follow the nurse into the office. Where I wait some more. I read the photo captions and the first page of a story about Saku Koivu in Reader's Digest. I peer at the posters displaying the human skeleton and musculature. I open a lid on a jar of tongue depressors. I think about stealing one. I think better. I recite the major bones and muscle groups under my breath. I drum out the beat from my discman on the arms of my chairs. I should really take up the drums. I'm good at it. I got rhythm. I wail away on the arms and sing softly out loud. I'm well into the third verse of "Waiting for the End of the World" when Dr. Stewart catches me.
Heh.
I feel like I'm five all over again and I guiltily take off my earphones. I always feel guilty when I go see Dr. Stewart. I don't think you can apologize enough for kicking a man in the shins as hard as you can. Even if you were only five and you really didn't want that flu shot. But he probably doesn't even remember and I totally digress.
We dispense with the small talk after a quick "how ya doin' - I'm fine", which is good, because it's a nice day and I don't want to ruin it by explaining that I was laid off and no, I don't have a job yet, but yes, I'm hopeful and no, the job market certainly isn't what it once was. He just says "what can I do for you today?" And I launch into a retelling of "the tale of two titties." I say that I'm sure it's nothing.
He tells me that he's never personally seen a case of breast cancer in somebody my age, that it's rare, but not unheard of and would I like a gown?
So I proceed to disrobe in front of the man who delivered me. And I point out the spots. The left one, he examines and asks "Really? You feel a bump there?"
Like, no, doc. I'm shitting you. I like to come in to the doctor's office and take my shirt off, shake my ta-ta's around and then go "Ha! Just foolin'!"
He does his best not to laugh at me and says "No. It's a skin thing. Probably an ingrown hair or an extremely light mole."
Okay. We both turn our attention to the right breast. This time, I do not have to point to the spot. It's still red, and the skin is kind of veiny looking around it. He pokes. He squeezes. He pats. He sort of flattens my breast with both of his hands. It hurts. I say ow. He frowns. They should really train doctors to smile all the time. Or at least, teach them not to frown. It's disconcerting. Especially when you're sitting there on a paper sheet with your shirt off.
He pokes it again. And tells me to raise my arms and then lower them slowly. I'm beginning to feel a bit like an idiot. I mean, it's cold in here and I'm naked from the waist up and a strange man is touching my breast. And hello! Did I mention that it's cold? Yeah. It is.
Finally, he tells me I can get dressed. Me and my nipples do so happily. As I'm putting my clothes back on, he tells me that it's not what I think it is. It's not a cancerous lump, that much is clear. "I don't want to say they're like marbles, because they can certainly be smaller than that, but if you had a lump, it would feel like a marble. This is soft." I nod. Like I know anything. "You should keep an eye on it. If it's still there in a few weeks, come back in. It might be the beginning of eczema. There are lotions we can put on that."
Let me tell you, I sailed out of that office! Eczema? A rash? What. Ever. That's nothing. I can deal with that.
To celebrate, I change CDs and me and the Clash go for a ride in the warm sun with the windows rolled down. I sing along at the top of my lungs and people look at me funny when I stop at red lights, but I don't care. If you can't sing along to "London Calling" at top volume after finding out that you don't have cancerous lumps in your breast, what good is having a voice?
The coffee from Timmy Ho's has never tasted as sweet, Joe Strummer never sounded better, and the sun never shone as bright. It's a good day to be alive.
I am listening to: The opening chords of "Who Are You?" CSI is on and I really hope Ballistics Bobby is one of the lab techs tonight. I have a big ol' geek crush on him. That show is like crack cocaine for science geeks and computer nerds who want to watch hot actors pretending to be geeks. I mean, George Eads, Gary Dourdan, Jorja Fox, and Marg Helgenberger could pool their collective hotness and provide electrical power to the city of Vegas for the rest of eternity. The lab techs and detectives are just icing on the cake, but Bobby and Liam and Archie are my favourites. Mmmm...Geek love.
I am reading: Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut. Have you seen that commercial with the guy searching for a first edition of Slaughterhouse-Five? He finds it and Kurt Vonnegut happens to be in the book store and the dude ends up with a signed first edition. The ad is for a range rover. Like you can't seek out second hand book stores and reclusive authors in your rusted-out Gremlin!
I love: My cat. He's so damn cute. And bad. Oh, he's bad.
I hate: America. Okay, I don't hate it, in fact, I think I might secretly love it, but jeez! Freedom Fries? I know a lot of smart, talented, witty, funny, good-lookin' Americans, but then, a few doofuses (doofi?) come along and, well...Freedom Fries, people! Gawd!
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