Sometimes, Melissa runs her legs. Sometimes, she runs her mouth.
Sometimes, life does not work out the way you expect. You make plans and then something happens to completely obliterate those plans. I was in the hospital for a couple of days. Depression lies. Depression told some whoppers. Apparently, I need to go in for a sleep study at a later date. I do feel a lot better but it threw me off the Holidailies rhythm.
I am writing the stories in long form and will be publishing them in bulk, if I can get away with it. We’ll see.
I am tired. Life got in the way so let’s do random trivia.
Five favorite movies.
Five Favorite Foods
Five favorite books
Five favorite pieces of art.
I never intended to chronicle my breast cancer scare online. Due to my age, my doctor had decided it was time for my first mammogram. While there, I noticed that there was some random pink plastic on the mammogram machine. The pink plastic didn’t appear to have any function and seemed purely ornamental. I took that to mean that the mammogram machine was sponsored by the Susan G. Komen foundation. I found that funny and posted a picture of it on Instagram.
Then I received a letter from the hospital where I received the mammogram stating I needed to come back. It was a long-form letter noting that early detection of breast cancer is important and all the usual legal language that covers the doctor for any liability. Then in pink highlighter, the hospital highlighted “The mammogram demonstrates an area that requires further testing” and proceeded to give me instructions on how to come back for further tests. Well, outlining that I must come back for breast cancer screening in pink was just too cute. I had to note that on Instagram, too. I thought it was funny.
TFW when your hospital highlights your letter that you may or may not have breast cancer in Komen pink. #cheekymonkeys
People I barely knew started commenting and seemed worried. I was genuinely astonished that people cared. I was just going back for more tests.
Then I had a second mammogram and ultrasound. Later, I was told to come into my primary care physician who then told me that I needed to go to a specialist. I do that and I get the news that there is a possibility that I might have to have surgery. The mass of cells was oddly shaped and had a fancy name that I don’t remember. I asked what the fancy name meant and my doctor, who was a sassy woman, said that it was like a bunch of grapes. Since it was shaped like a bunch of grapes, it was easier to remove the entire mass than try to biopsy each little “grape.”
Well crap, now I have to tell people because you can’t drive after outpatient surgery. My Dad is one of six kids and those kids had a truckload. of kids themselves. Let’s just say my family tree is massive and leave it at that. I’ll tell the story of my big crazy family another day. So in the interest of not hurting anyone’s feelings. I told my parents who are not internet savvy at all and announced it on Facebook, like a coward.
Well I guess it’s time to say something. Given that my extended family is wide and spread out, I’m just going to post it here.
About a month ago, I went to my primary care physician about my elbow. He looked at it, asked me how old I was, and scheduled me for a mammogram based on my answer.
Then he had me come back for another mammogram because something was weird. So I got a second mammogram and an ultrasound. Then I got referred to a specialist.
So the specialist didn’t have the pictures from my first mammograms but had the reports. According to the report, there is a mass of cells shaped like a tiny bundle of grapes in my right boob. Doctors are concerned about the boob grapes.
So I go back and they will run more tests and I might be having surgery on the 16th of October to remove those pesky boob grapes.
Grapes are for raisins and wine, not boobs.
Mom is more nervous than I am. She is all “I’m going to be there. I’m going with you. We’ll just take Grandma with us.”
By this point, it had gotten more real. There was a discussion on whom would drive me to and from the hospital. My mother was hellbent on doing this. It was like she had been a single woman who left me on the stoop of a fire station as a baby, waited 20 years, and was coming back to make up for the lost time. She was going to Mother me, dammit.
Honestly, I was a little glad. I had never had surgery before with the exception of some oral surgery as a child pre-braces. This definitely seemed more looming. I wanted to just have surgery, regress for a little bit, and have my mommy make me a sandwich and serve me ice cream while I healed. It’s been a while. It was also during this time that Justice Kavanaugh was having his confirmation hearings and my PTSD was on full on freak me out mode. [this is a story for another day].
Also, one of my cats died. The other cat got extremely clingy and would wail in the night mourning the loss of his compatriot. He would also make biscuits on the portion of my breasts where those pesky “grapes” were. I laughed and christened them, “the grapes of wrath.” Yeah, the vintage where the grapes of wrath were stored was my right boob. That seems about right. I laughed and laughed and decided right then that I was getting a tattoo of some grapes when this was all over.
The surgery itself was textbook. I went under. I woke up wearing an industrial strength sports bra with a big wad of gauze on my right boob. There was mild discomfort at best. I was told that the mass would be sent to the lab. The lab would run some tests and based on those results, I would get to go on about my life or I would have to come back and have more surgery. Then I got to go home or my parents’ home. Or more specifically, I got driven to my parents’ home. My Mom was calm or at least calm on the surface.
We walked in the door.
my Dad asks “how did she do?”
Mom: “fine”
Dad: “Did people clap?”
Mom: “What?”
Dad: “her performance.”
Mom: “She had surgery today.”
Dad: “SURGERY!”
Mom: “Yeah. I told you
I used to play piano (that’s a story for another day). I hadn’t performed in public in over twenty years. My Dad had apparently thought I had gone somewhere to give a concert and came back wearing sweatpants. He also asked if we had picked up candy for the trick or treaters. Halloween was over two weeks away. My heart sank. I know my Dad is seventy-something and his Dad had issues with Alzheimer’s but my still under anesthesia brain was not prepared to handle the enormity of these statements. I went to bed and watched Netflix movies. Actually, I watched comedy specials and thought about what everything meant.
I waited. I took some time off. Two days after surgery, I had a court hearing scheduled and I knew based on a doctor’s report that I hadn’t received yet that it would merely be a motion for a continuance. My Mom had agreed to drive me to this remote country courthouse in a county over two hundred miles from her house. We chatted like we were kids. She marveled that I was taking her into the country to kill her. We drove through the mountains and looked at the picturesque barns on hills alongside the road. We finally get to the courthouse and my client never showed. oops. Well, that was interesting. I also realized the hard way that healing a nickel-sized hole in your boob is exhausting. It only feels not exhausting when you are lying down watching TV.
You do a lot of thinking when you’re lying in bed sleepily healing waiting for some test results that tell you whether or not you are going to potentially die sooner rather than later. You think of all the fools you fucked before and wonder what they are doing now. You cyberstalk their butts and find them on Facebook, looking at their little families and their little lives that aren’t you. You’ll see something that reminds you of why you fell in love with them in the first place. You’ll see something else that reminds you why you dumped their ass and aren’t even Facebook friends with them now. You start to think about your own little life and your own little family and wonder what the fuck are you even doing? You wonder about the things you used to love before life got in the way. You wonder about those dreams deferred and realize that you might not get those dreams. Do you even want those dreams anymore? The time of your life becomes finite and you can feel each second propelling you towards death.
The time wasn’t completely negative. I did think of the cool stuff: the cool jobs, the trips, the schools, the excitement involved with fucking all those fools. Let’s be real. Fucking is fun, even if it is with a fool. It’s been a ride but I wasn’t ready for it to end. I especially wasn’t ready for it to end in this way.
I got my test results back and posted the following on Facebook.
The lab has spoken. The grapes are not rancid. They are fruity goodness
Seriously, I will not be dying from breast cancer. I will be dying by getting shot by an angry, crazy family member as is my destiny. (My family is something out of a Faulkner novel). I have a one-inch horizontal incision near the top of my right boob. Post surgery has been more exhausting than I thought it would be. Thank you so much to everyone who has called, texted, and checked in. I appreciate and love you more than you can imagine.
And now I’m working on doing some of the things I want to do while I still have time to do them.
George H.W. Bush died two days ago and his death brings up a very profound and unique phenomenon in life: the way we treat our dead. I have seen the obituaries and I have seen the criticism that we, as an American society, are only focusing on the good side of George Bush. Well, he did just die, but to be fair, when a police officer shoots an African American, the dead African American’s drug use and other criminal activity gets noted in the press when he dies.
It seems that since the development of the internet and our ability to get a wider breadth of information, we have become incapable of exploring the depth of information. Everyone and everything gets oversimplified. Our brains, even before the internet, in an effort to be more efficient catalogs information in schemas and instinctually notes information that confirms stereotypes while ignoring information that contradicts those stereotypes. It’s hard to deal with information that does not fit a linear or cohesive function.
So that is what is happening with George H.W. Bush right now. He died at 94 and that’s a good age for dying. If by 94, you didn’t do everything you wanted to do, then that’s on you. You definitely had enough time. He became President after Ronald Regan after being his vice president for eight years. Ronald Regan was quite the charismatic guy and George Bush came across as his smarter much more boring accountant. But he did fight in World War 2 and worked in the CIA so he seemed to have some experience. He also had his share of controversy including Iran Contra.
So who is right. Everyone. People are messy. People are imperfect. Of course, he was charming. Charm is a part of politics. It was also a simpler time when there was less tribalism in politics and there was more discourse. Some of his policies through people under the bus and his policies regarding AIDS were bordering on cruel. I’m sure there are people out there who hate his guts. No one living gets through life without pissing someone off. It’s the imperfection of humanity. We fuck up. We get angry and say cruel things. We get wrapped up in our own lives and neglect other people and things. It’s the human condition. We strive to be better and sometimes we fail.
But I think in these times, it is necessary to take a step back and remember the purpose of an obituary. Who keeps an obituary? The close members of the family and people who were close enough to the deceased to go to the funeral. (An obituary is also used by genealogists. It tells you the surviving family members and the predeceased but that’s another topic) It’s part of the ceremony we use to comfort those who are left behind. Family and friends want to know that the person whose death has so broken their hearts was remembered fondly by others. They want a story about how the person who just died made a difference in their own lives. They want validation that their pain is real. So the family cuts out the obituary and puts it in a book somewhere and it sits there. An obituary isn’t intended to be an exhaustive history of the person. It’s meant to be a memento.
So maybe out of respect for the people who saw George H.W. Bush as a father, a cousin, a friend, and a colleague that we step back and focus on those positive moments that made him a great person. Yes, we remember something fond of him, too. I’m sorry for your loss. Even public figures have families. We can analyze his broader legacy in the coming weeks.
Hello. Is this thing on? It’s me, Melissa. I know it’s been a while. I’ve been busy but life got in the way. Then a health issue reminded me that life was fleeting and that I liked writing. I want to spend more time doing it. So here I am.
We’ll talk about the health issues later. I have 30 days to fill.
Also, during this time, I realized that my Dad’s memory is fading. His Dad died of Alzheimer’s. His Dad’s Dad’s Mom died of Alzheimer’s. Crap. It’s only a matter of time before I start forgetting shit. I need to write this down.
So these 30 days will be the stories I need to write down because I don’t want to forget them and other random things. These will be the stories that are near and dear to my heart. The stories that might be helpful for others to hear. Some will just be plain silly. It will be a mixture— not unlike life itself. I hope you enjoy it.
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