Boob Cancer Incident of 2011, Part IV

Much like Star Wars, I am going to start with Part IV.  Because, like Star Wars, the first three should never have been told to anyone over the age of 12.  Or something like that.  I can't remember my point.  Um, maybe, like Star Wars, giving anthropomorphic qualities to my breast is as unnecessary as giving them to Jar-jar Binks.

To the point.  At the beginning of October, I found a lump in my left boob.  

Let us pause for a proclomation.

PRUPT-TOOTER-TOOT!  (that was a trumpet).  

I declare, by the power granted to me by the Body Part Personification Committee, that 'left boob' shall hence forth be known as 'Tit the Betrayer'.  Tit the Betrayer, up until recently you were the favourite of the two knockers, but it turns out you are bit of an asshole (nothing personal, Butt the Belligerent). 

Butt the Belligerent
He cut you.

So I found the lump, had a little fall apart, then went to the doctor.  There were actually many more steps between lump and Doc, but I intend to write about them in a different post, when I can actually deal with all the things that went on.

I got an ultrasound, and expected to hear the results 5 days later.  Expecting is too limp of a word.  I was dreading, denying, and fearing the phone call.  By the end of the day, I hadn't heard anything.  I couldn't take another day of low grade panic, so I called.

This is an aproximate transcript of that phone call.  SS = slow secretary (also, by the end of this I was convinced she was involved in the other SS).  She was slurping her saliva, breathing great gusts of air, and giggling throughout. 

Anyway.

SS - 'ello?

T - Hi.  I had an ultra-sound last week.  I was wondering if the results were in.

SS - Name?

T - Smith*

SS - makes saliva sounds.  How do you spell that?

T - S.m.i.t.h.

SS - S. um, N.?

T - No.  S...m...i...t...h.

SS - Oh.  giggle.  S (deep breath) m...(deep breath) i... uh... e... uh... h.
 
T - No.  S...m...i...t..h...

SS - makes saliva sounds - OH!  Smith!  Ok, what's your first name.

T - Teresa.  T...e...r...e...s...a

SS - Ok. breathes loudly T.r.e.s.s.a

T - T.....e.....r.....e.....s......a.....

SS - more saliva chewing sounds 
SS - Oh.  Um.  Uh Oh.  OH NO!

T - Heart stops and stomach falls out my hoo-ha at "OH NO".  Start trying to figure out how I'm going to tell ManFriend and my family.  How I am going to tell work?  How am I going to support myself while I'm down for repairs?  Is it pessimism to start planning my funeral, or considerate to my family, so they don't have to?

SS - Um?  slllluuuuuuurrrrppppp.  I mean, um, Ooops?  How do you spell your name again?

T - Grits teeth.  Wonders where you can buy a mace online, and how long it would take to ship.  Considers how to re-insert stomach.  Tries very hard not to speak in exclamation marks.
T - T...E...R...E...S...A 

SS - No.  Your, uh, last name?

T - Explodes, leaving blood, guts, bad attitude, and potentially cancerous cells splattered about the room.  Feels only a little bit bad about the mess ManFriend will have to clean up.  

This continues for way longer than it should.  At one point, even I couldn't spell my name.

There is no way I can begin to convey to you the rage and fear I was feeling.  At one point, she did apologize, saying that it was her second week on the job.  I deserve a Medal of Honour for not asking if it was her second week of working with the alphabet too.  To be fair, being new is rough.  But I was one potential fun-bag lump away from my life changing completely, so was not in the mood for patience or understanding.  Ok, so I never really am. 

After we finish sorting out my name, she books me an appointment for the next day.


 *note - I actually stopped writing here.  She let it slip that it probably wasn't anything to worry about, but I was convinced it was an evil trick to lull me into a false sense of calm so she could jump out from behind a curtain, yelling OH NO while pointing at my left bosom.  Bitch.  SS would totally do that.  So would The SS. 

Turns out that I don't have cancer.  I have cysts.  Lots of cysts.  So many, they are going to rename me Cystasaurus Pecs.  I hope you are laughing, cause Cystasaurus Pecs is f'ing genius. 

Cystasaurus Pecs usually got picked to be the target. 

*not my real last name.  And for you all you who do know it, I've got a stink eye waiting right here for you if you spill.  I'm still figuring out what I want to do with this blogging persona stuff.

First image by Take With a Grain.  Second image by Elijah Majeski via Sabino.