When I walked into the mammography room, I was told that there was an 85% chance that everything was fine.
By the time I walked out, that had been reduced to 10%.
I am 24 and my body knows how to make cancer.
I remember running laps in sixth grade gym when I felt the slightest hint of a jiggle.
“Awesome,” I thought, “I have boobs!”
But as we all know, most thoughts we have at age eleven are critically flawed.
Fast forward to this January. I’d been contemplating breast reduction surgery for a couple of years. To the casual observer, I pass for a 36D, maybe DD depending on the day’s wardrobe. But clothing and flab betray the tininess of my frame.
32FF is not a bra size sold in stores. In fact, 32FF is a size that makes my doctor’s eyes bug in horror.
Ordinarily, I’d have been sent directly to the plastic surgeon — the finest in the land. But given my family history of breast cancer, Doc thought maybe I should get a mammogram first. Just to get the ducks in a row.
Two years ago, my mom had her annual mammogram. The film came back and there were small calcifications on her left breast. Her doctor said, “Your mammogram is bad. We caught it early. I’m sending you to a specialist, do everything they tell you.” A second mammogram, a biopsy, a second surgery to remove any iffy margins, and a round of radiation later, she is cancer-free.
Today my mammogram came back. It looks eerily similar. Calcfications, left breast, three-o-clock.
The radiologist gets a closer look at 8:30 a.m. on the 24th.
Part 2 coming as soon as I know what comes next.
Dear critter in my ceiling,
Get out. Please. You wake me up with your scurrying noises. This is only the second time, but three strikes and I call the maintenance guys.
You sound small, so I’m guessing you’re a squirrel. If I buy you some nuts and put them on my balcony, will you promise to stay out of my ceiling?
Walnuts? Pecans? I know peanuts aren’t good for squirrels, but I’m pretty sure they don’t sell bags of acorns at Dillons.
Love,
Katie
I hauled my collections down to the recycling center today. It’s a quarterly exercise where I go and look at all the hippies and wonder if I blend in with them. (I think I do.)
I bundle up three months’ worth of newspapers, a few beer bottles, a couple of wine bottles and a big mountain of Diet Coke cans. I want to think that these cans breed in my kitchen closet when I’m not looking, but they don’t. I put every single one of those cans into that trash bag. I know because I crunch them all by hand and my hands are very tired.
And then I put it all into my trunk, drive down to the highway, get on, get off two exits later and drive into the sad part of town where the houses are smaller than my one-bedroom apartment. I turn right on Clark Street and ponder whether I should wait in line to park inside the warehouse or take an open parking spot outside and lug my junk a little farther. Depends on how long the line is. It’s been longer lately.
And I pick up a big, heavy laundry basket full of newspapers and awkwardly carry it inside, thinking, “thank god for weightlifting class or this would be even less fun.” Then some teenage volunteer says, “I can take that for you, ma’am,” and “ma’am” makes me feel old and unattractive, although I appreciate the help.
And then, my trunk emptied, I drive home dreaming of the day when I live in a house and have curbside recycling.
For anyone who worries that I’ve disappeared off the face of the earth: I’m still active on Twitter if not here.
Unrelated: Dictionary.app is my favorite thing. I’m amazed I ever passed the GRE. Someone should torture me with flash cards before my vocabulary completely vanishes.
Why can’t I wear prints? Why do I hate them on the hanger and on me, but not on other people (as much)? Why does the (tasteful!) floral print shirt I bought online make me want to puke when I model it in front of the mirror?
I like solids. I like textures. I will wear pinstripe and plaid and houndstooth pants, but can’t stand the sight of the multicolored anything above the waist.
Should I seek therapy or accept that solids are probably more flattering anyway?
I’ve been thinking that
it would be way awesome if
Al Gore was my dad
Powered by WordPress