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.