It’s official. My Guy and I moved into our new house this weekend.
Well, more like we started camping at our new house. Since we’re keeping both of our other houses staged, our new house has a bed, a futon, and a ratty old loveseat that the labradoodles use as a chew toy. In addition, there’s a dead squirrel in our front yard.
We are totally Those Neighbors.
But we’re in, and the kitchen is almost fully equipped. There are towels and toilet paper in the bathroom – even if we rigged up a curtain with clothespins and a beach towel. Stay classy, noodleroux.
I’ve been wildly vascillating between a total freakout of the “holy shit, we’ll never get everything done / clean / moved / not crappy” variety and a Zen feeling that we will look back on this time fondly. Also? The move and frantic packing and cleaning have helped divert my attention and provide a calm that only comes with exhaustion.
A few days after the first of the year, in the midst of the new house cleaning and painting, during the most stressful time of the year at Corporate Behemoth, I ran into something. Or, to be more exact, my forearm rammed into a huge lump in my breast. I had a cyst the size of a golf ball. While I am given to exaggeration, I am completely serious here. Golf. Ball.
I had a mammogram. And an ultrasound. And oh, by the way, did I know I had an even bigger cyst right next to the golf ball? A cyst that’s three inches long? Or what about that weird, unidentified mass in the other boob? Had I felt that?
I’m moving. I’m getting married. I don’t have time to deal with these boobie traps.
I had the golf ball aspirated last week, and it refilled. On Wednesday, I’m having both of the cysts – which My Guy and I have named El Cysto and El Nino – aspirated with the help of an ultrasound. And the mystery mass? His name is Kevin, but he prefers to go by Antoine. Like this guy.
Antoine will get a core biopsy, where they take like three chunks out of him, then leave in a piece of titanium so they can track him via mammogram. I wanted to know if this would make airport metal detectors go off, but sadly, the word on the street is a big fat no.
I’ve been really, really angry. This is wholly unfair. I take good care of my body. I’m getting married – I shouldn’t have to explain to the lady doing my dress alterations that the bust might change. I have already filled my shit quota.
And I’ve been scared. I’ve had cysts aspirated before, and it’s truly No Big Deal. It’s sort of like watching a video game, actually – you watch the cyst on the ultrasound and you can see the needle going in. But Antoine, The Mystery Mass? While the specialist thinks he’s either a collapsed cyst or a fibroadenoma, my overactive imagination has taken me to some dark places, where Antoine is armed and dangerous, and not an Internet sensation at all.
But right now? Right now, I’m just looking forward to my left boob not being all cystacular and misshapen from its unwelcome occupants. And I’m glad to be in our house, even if we are camping. We’re about to get three feet of snow, and things could be a lot worse.
But if you would send me good vibes on Wednesday? I’d really appreciate it.
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