There is a ridiculous energy that comes with having the shit scared out of you. You stay awake for hours later than your normal bedtime-wondering, worrying, thinking. It’s the thoughts that get you down and keep you up, awake and terrified. The lumps and bumps and bruises that you consider “no big deal” until someone else makes a big deal about it.
A smart girl would go to bed and try to sleep, but not this girl. This girl weighs every possible outcome in her mind, wondering… will these bumps in the road be no big deal-a fat ball or a Lindt truffle embedded under my arm- something to laugh about in a week or two? Or will this end up being a case of “get your affairs in order?” The realm of possibilities scares the hell out of me.
I’ve been having pain in my side for a while and now it’s radiating down my arm. I assumed that the pain was related to my beautiful new bras. Because that makes sense in my world. I mentioned this on Thursday to EN and he started feeling around and found a lump in under my arm. As is normal in our relationship, he immediately freaked out, while I told him he was full of it. There’s no lump there but HOLY CRAP! Don’t touch that spot because it hurts like a mother fucker. Don’t fucking touch me and please stop talking about it, because YOU, my dear husband, are full of shit.
So we woke up this morning and didn’t speak of it. Then the cancer-laden broad from down the street popped over for a visit. We were laughing and having a good time when EN said, “Did Ice Princess show you her armpit?” Why EN, your social skills need a lot of fucking help, just shut up. And the two of them lectured me, I need to call the doctor immediately. My friend said something pleasant like, “Yeah, keep waiting because Stage Four would be a whole lot of fun.”
Really? I don’t need to surround myself with a bunch of fun suckers. I need to defriend you all.
I called my doctor’s office and spoke to a nurse. She was less than reassuring. I think she wanted to join that group of fun suckers that are in my world. She set an appointment, basically giving me 45 minutes to make myself presentable and drive to the office. Fine, I will be the queen of your drama club.
I showered in record time, put on my face and left for the doctor’s office. The medical assistant that weighed me and took my blood pressure (bitch) tried to be reassuring and told me that lumps that hurt were almost never cancer. I decided I liked her then, and we had a great conversation about a woman I heard about at the local grocery store. She comes in every two weeks and buys seven cartons of cigarettes. We came to the conclusion that the longest break her lungs get is when she goes into the store to make that purchase.
The doctor came in and felt my sweaty armpit. I could smell how scared I was, as if my crazy blood pressure wasn’t enough of an indicator. He handed me a fabulous paper robe and told me he’d need to do a breast exam. Without even buying me dinner first. Where do these guys come from?
He left the room while I undressed and came back to feel me up. When he checked the other armpit, he found another lump. He told me to get dressed and he’d be back. Fantastical, a two-for-one deal.
He came back into the room and told me that he was pretty sure I just had cysts (ie, fat balls) under my arms, even though he couldn’t find their “points of origin” and that if it was lymph nodes, under BOTH arms, that would be… He didn’t finish the sentence. Nor did he make eye contact. Instead, he issued orders for me to get an ultrasound and mammogram.
If this was a big deal, they would have wrapped me in bubble wrap and ambulanced me immediately to a facility to get these tests done. Instead, I have an appointment on the 30th to get this shit looked at. I’m sure I’m fine, three of the women that I am in contact with very frequently have cancer. They don’t need me to join their club. I’m not into stealing anyone else’s thunder. I’ll make them dinners and send them cards and chocolates. Let me, for once, be the underachiever that has cysts and not cancerous tumors.
I know I’m a tacky broad. I love shit that’s animal print and bedazzled. But to join this group of cancer chicks? That would be tacky.