be forewarned; this post will be filled with self-indulgent bitchiness & heavy on the swears, at least for me. probably NSFW, at least language-wise. if that's not your style, then close the window now. if you're my mom, you'll understand if you do decide to read on. God. you'll so understand.
i hate pink. file that in the back of your head for now.
for some reason, i was told not to get tested for mutated BRCA1 or BRCA2 genes. that was during one of my first visits to The Breast Center at Mercy Hospital [which i kind of want to refer to, here on out, as "hell," but because the ladies are nice, i won't]. my healthcare prof (i'll keep her name out of this, thank you) gave me some reason or other that must have made sense at the time. it doesn't make sense to me anymore. see, my great-grandmother denius died of breast cancer. my grandmother hixson (née denius) had it in her late 60s/early 70s & fought through the chemo & radiation. my aunt had invasive surgery. my mom & my other aunt had to have biopsies. for my mom & her sisters, this all went down while they were in their 40s/50s. for me, it first happened when i was 29.
fucking 29.
it was the summer of 2009, and i found it at night. then another one this past winter, a lump i found while i was in the shower. i could tell which drops on my face were tears because they were so much hotter than those from the showerhead.
today, inhell's the center's waiting room, i was glued to mobile FB. having left my phone at home (stupid, stupid, stupid, of all the days to forget...), this was the only way i could feel slightly un-alone. i reached out to someone dear, & i explained my feelings thus:
"i'm only 32. this should only happen when i'm bent over with years & grandkids, when it matters but almost kind of doesn't because i'm happy with the life i've lived."
i felt so fucked. as Anne Lamott put it, i felt fucked six ways from Sunday. here's an excerpt from my journal while waiting inhell's 9th circle the exam room:
"This damn robe/gown/thing. This fucking ridiculous, Bubbaliciously nauseatingly pink damn motherfucking robe. What? Do they think that by using a girl-colored cotton, decked with swirly floral doodles, that I'll feel better?
"Fuck that shit.
"I hate pink."
& so i do. pink reminds me too much of pepto bismal. while they don't gag me [which i thoroughly appreciate], those little discs of peppermint chalk have that association with foul bodily functions that just are too, too gross. & then there's the identification. if it's pink, then it's girl. i remember shopping for boxing gloves a few years back, & the only ones they had designed specifically for women? pink. sale = lost. i hate those shirts/bumper stickers/grrrrrl-power products that say "fight like a girl." if you're going to fight like you mean it, gender doesn't mean anything, & colors don't either. well, no colors matter, except for these: red, purple, black, & blue. trust me. i've been on the mat & on the opposite end of some muay thai kicks; when those four show up, any other color (& your sex) won't mean a DAMN thing to you. i don't need a color to tell me i'm a woman. i don't need a shirt that tries to be witty (& fails miserably, but that's another post by itself) in its instruction to be tough. don't even try to talk to me about running "skirts"...
sorry. tangent.
pink is not a rallying cry for me. it never will be. in my world, pink can only be two things: either really hot underthings (hey, i do have some sense of style) or that which constantly reminds me of these repeatedvisits to hell check-ups & tests for cancer.
i probably sound like such a bitch right now. women (& men, really) who have really taken swings & survived cancer might be saying to themselves, "wow, she sounds like such a bitch right now," & i wouldn't blame them. thus far, i am okay. thus far, all biopsies have been negative. i may have lumps, but they're all fibroadenomas (which are okay things to have, provided they stay that way). my health prof is incredible: brilliant, empathetic, & compassionate, all qualities a patient needs from a health prof inhell this situation.
so to survivors & familes thereof, all who have endured far worse than me, i apologize. i'm sweating under a gun, but the bullets have all been blanks. hats off to you who have taken the real thing, & i mean that very sincerely.
i guess what i fear is this: how many times can the trigger be pulled & the shot not go right through me?
i'm scared.
i hate pink. file that in the back of your head for now.
for some reason, i was told not to get tested for mutated BRCA1 or BRCA2 genes. that was during one of my first visits to The Breast Center at Mercy Hospital [which i kind of want to refer to, here on out, as "hell," but because the ladies are nice, i won't]. my healthcare prof (i'll keep her name out of this, thank you) gave me some reason or other that must have made sense at the time. it doesn't make sense to me anymore. see, my great-grandmother denius died of breast cancer. my grandmother hixson (née denius) had it in her late 60s/early 70s & fought through the chemo & radiation. my aunt had invasive surgery. my mom & my other aunt had to have biopsies. for my mom & her sisters, this all went down while they were in their 40s/50s. for me, it first happened when i was 29.
fucking 29.
it was the summer of 2009, and i found it at night. then another one this past winter, a lump i found while i was in the shower. i could tell which drops on my face were tears because they were so much hotter than those from the showerhead.
today, in
"i'm only 32. this should only happen when i'm bent over with years & grandkids, when it matters but almost kind of doesn't because i'm happy with the life i've lived."
i felt so fucked. as Anne Lamott put it, i felt fucked six ways from Sunday. here's an excerpt from my journal while waiting in
"This damn robe/gown/thing. This fucking ridiculous, Bubbaliciously nauseatingly pink damn motherfucking robe. What? Do they think that by using a girl-colored cotton, decked with swirly floral doodles, that I'll feel better?
"Fuck that shit.
"I hate pink."
& so i do. pink reminds me too much of pepto bismal. while they don't gag me [which i thoroughly appreciate], those little discs of peppermint chalk have that association with foul bodily functions that just are too, too gross. & then there's the identification. if it's pink, then it's girl. i remember shopping for boxing gloves a few years back, & the only ones they had designed specifically for women? pink. sale = lost. i hate those shirts/bumper stickers/grrrrrl-power products that say "fight like a girl." if you're going to fight like you mean it, gender doesn't mean anything, & colors don't either. well, no colors matter, except for these: red, purple, black, & blue. trust me. i've been on the mat & on the opposite end of some muay thai kicks; when those four show up, any other color (& your sex) won't mean a DAMN thing to you. i don't need a color to tell me i'm a woman. i don't need a shirt that tries to be witty (& fails miserably, but that's another post by itself) in its instruction to be tough. don't even try to talk to me about running "skirts"...
sorry. tangent.
pink is not a rallying cry for me. it never will be. in my world, pink can only be two things: either really hot underthings (hey, i do have some sense of style) or that which constantly reminds me of these repeated
i probably sound like such a bitch right now. women (& men, really) who have really taken swings & survived cancer might be saying to themselves, "wow, she sounds like such a bitch right now," & i wouldn't blame them. thus far, i am okay. thus far, all biopsies have been negative. i may have lumps, but they're all fibroadenomas (which are okay things to have, provided they stay that way). my health prof is incredible: brilliant, empathetic, & compassionate, all qualities a patient needs from a health prof in
so to survivors & familes thereof, all who have endured far worse than me, i apologize. i'm sweating under a gun, but the bullets have all been blanks. hats off to you who have taken the real thing, & i mean that very sincerely.
i guess what i fear is this: how many times can the trigger be pulled & the shot not go right through me?
i'm scared.
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