About Me
- Kola Kokahalla
- Some call me the space cowboy... Actually, no one calls me that. Not least of all because I'm a lady. A proper lady, with ambitions and passion and lipstick. I'm brimming with love and scorn, courage and fear, hope and disappointment, alcohol and pathos. And I make great pancakes!
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Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Staying Abreast of Matters
3:17 PM | Posted by
Kola Kokahalla |
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It started, as things sometimes do, in the shower. A new lotion that smelled like fresh spring limes. Warm water. All good. You might think this is a cue for an ensuing pornographic scene. It isn't.
"What's this?"
Something that doesn't belong. A lump. A lump in my upper lady place, where no lumps should reside. One of those dark monsters you hear that other women find, but who're never supposed to haunt you. Certainly not me. I am indestructible, remember?
I reacted maturely by deciding I was going to die. Probably by tomorrow and most likely in a severely painful dramatic manner while everyone I know sobbed around my bedside and a sad song played on the stereo. Something heart wrenching.
I broke out in a cold sweat of dread. My breathing got hard. I burst into tears and rested my face against the soaking wet tile, terrified.
It's nothing.
It's something.
It's normal.
It's just hormones due to it being the first day of my period.
I'm going to die.
Those are the thoughts that go through your head all in about three seconds flat.
While I was drying off and putting on clean clothes that smelled of lavender, my mind raced with the possibilities until, a minute later, I had already said all my tearful goodbyes in my head like some overly emotional movie scene, died a hundred dramatic deaths, called myself a "fucking moron" for being so morose and decided that panic was not my friend.
I didn't tell anyone about the lump that day, or the next. I didn't want to acknowledge its existence. I didn't want it to have any power. It was going away.
Next day, I felt it again. Same place and method as before. So I panicked again. Because you know, I really am immortal. And full of menstrual hormone demons. How dare this stupid lump not recognize my immortality, my unshakeability?
I can't be sick. I won't allow it. I don't have time. I have stuff to do. Futures to plan. Debts to settle. So. Much. Stuff. To. Do.
I thought I'd wait and find a nice perfect moment to tell my boyfriend about the situation, because keeping these things to yourself only makes the burden greater. So the following day, waiting in line at the auto shop, while buying a new muffler whatchamadoodle for the car, I blurted out, "I also need a bulb for the signal light and I have a lump the size of a grapefruit on my breast and am probably going to die."
My boyfriend, once he'd deciphered that sentence, walked me outside, sat me down on a bench and while no one was around had a covert poke at the diseased boobie. "It's the size of a dime!" he said, "And you shouldn't panic, they happen all the time and you need to go see a doctor who can tell you what it is."
Because he's really immortal and unflappable and maybe not so dramatic.
He did a ton of research and reassured me with things like, "Hey, 80% of breast lumps are not even dangerous!" and such nuggets of wisdom.
Today, the day after my period ended, I can hardly feel the lump unless I poke around quite severely. It's smaller, less noticeable but still apparent in some form. I went to see the doctor early this morning. She was a small, cheerful Indian lady with a big smile and a reassuring touch. While she was kneading my boobs like dough, she talked to me about the weather and the summer so far and if we were in for a cold winter, as though we were conversing on a park bench while sharing a sandwich.
I babbled mindlessly like a lobotomized idiot.
"I really don't feel anything too abnormal there." she said finally, after a good two minutes of prodding. "Just a little thicker tissue in the area you said but I wouldn't even call it a lump particularly. I think it's probably completely natural. Certainly, it doesn't feel suspicious to me at this stage at all."
I had the burning urge to stand up, throw my arms in the air and yell, 'Everybody lives!" like in Doctor Who.
"I'm not going to die?" I asked, cautiously. "Not yet, no." she said with a frown.
"However..." she stated, because there's always a however. "That's just my medical opinion. You need to get a mammogram just to be 100% sure, because my hands can only tell you so much. I don't think you have much to worry about, but the mammogram will tell you for sure if you need further tests or not and then you can relax."
She told me that even if it did turn out to be something more serious, it was likely so early it would be treatable pretty quickly and that there was no rush in me getting an immediate appointment. "The next few weeks is fine." she said.
"Even if this did turn out to be breast cancer," my boyfriend told me triumphantly once we'd gotten outside. "Deaths from breast cancer are now 1 in 28. That's pretty good odds!"
"Stop doing research now." I said. "You're freaking me out."
So now I'm feeling a bit better. I'm waiting to get my boobs pancaked between two, cold glass plates, which happens in just over 2 weeks. And drinking a cup of hot coffee. And definitely not freaking out about biopsies and surgeries and other pleasant things.
Not much anyway. Maybe later.
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6 comments:
Shoot Ko'Kola! I'm not sure if you welcome such things, but: I've said a prayer for your breasts.
I don't mean to be too forward there. I'd think no less of you if you were a skeptical-minded intellectual, more prone to explain the startling efficacy of my prayers in terms of X-men style mutation or extroverted placebo effect - it's all good as far as I'm concerned! But the fact is, my prayers push rhymes like weight to quote Ice Cube. So hopefully, no offense taken. Let's be united in pragmatism, here.
>I had the burning urge to stand up, throw my arms in the air and yell, 'Everybody lives!" like in Doctor Who.
THIS. Yes. A beautiful scene.
Well no offense taken at all Sir. In fact, my boobs thank you. I mean they don't talk per se, but I know them. Psychically. And they thank you. Sincerely.
Doctor Who always says it best. He says, "WHAT?"
That is psychicly. Psychically? Psychickalllly? In my mind, comprendez?
Those psy-, psych-, psycho- words can be tricky, but I think you got it right the first time!
your mind is mine,
like open books
and secret signs
and meanings took
and understood
like easy math.
I read your mind!
signed,
psychopath
You know, I'm not sure there's any character from fiction I have more sincere love and affection for than good ol' The Doctor.
I feel like there must be, somewhere, but it's not coming through right now.
I had a lump show up on a mamogram once; it turned out to be a fat globule. Hope your results are silular.
Thank you Eva! Me too.
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