I’m celebrating Breast Cancer Awareness Month in a very special way. Much like a very special episode of the cheesy 80’s sitcom of your choice, “very special” = “kind of crappy.”
Remember a few weeks ago when I found a lump and had a mammogram and sonogram? Good times! Today, I had a follow-up appointment with the breast surgeon – or, as I like to think of her, The Boobie Doctor. Because I hate the idea of surgery, and she’s really great and wears cool glasses and was honestly impressed today when I told her that I got my cool bracelet at a garage sale.
The Boobie Doctor and I decided that I should have my current asshole cysts aspirated – not because they are dangerous, but mostly because they hurt when my 7-pound dachshund walks on them, which is basically every night. I’m going to get my aspiration on on Monday.
The good? I have done this 3 times and totally know the score. When the nurse was going over the instructions with me, I was all, “Yeah, whatevs. Been there, done that. I like your hair.”
The bad? I get to tell my new, male boss that gee, I need to take at least an afternoon off, and gee, wanna talk about my rack?
This is so dumb and so not fair. And even though I’ve switched to a non-aluminum deodorant and am in the process of throwing out all the plastic in my kitchen and completely revamping my diet, The Boobie Doctor basically said that all things considered, stress is causing my cystacular flair-ups.
Whaaa? So, she’s saying that trying to get pregnant, leaving a job I’d had for 6 years, starting a new job, finding out that oh, we’re barren, and getting fired was stressful? That’s crazytalk.
It’s annoying that stress isn’t something you can fix with a vitamin. Addressing it is deliberate, and difficult. And it doesn’t really fit in with the pouting thing that I’ve got going on right now.
But the even stranger thing than the pouting?
I really am OK with the aspiration.
I was by far the youngest woman in The Boobie Doctor’s waiting room. I was alone. I wasn’t upset. I knew what the situation was, and I knew what the options were. I was in control. I didn’t even feel like crying later in the car. Mostly, I’m just annoyed about talking to my boss – even though he will be lovely about it.
It just sort of is what it is.
Maybe this is just what my normal is like … regular normal, punctuated by needles-in-my-boobs normal. And really, needles-in-my-boobs normal isn’t that big of a deal.
But I would rather be on a beach somewhere, drinking a Bloody Mary. I’m not completely insane.