One day you are strolling through your life, consciously thinking how happy you are, and how fantastic your life is, and how much you love all of your friends and family and your house and your dogs and your Babe Cave, and your guitar, and how excited you are for the Sista and the Fin’s visit later in the week, and how healthy you feel, and you book a weekend trip to Los Angeles to visit Cooper and the Cupcakes and have a date with that cute guy you met in the airport a few months ago, and then WHAM! Out of nowhere, you get clobbered by life.
And that’s what happened to the Zadge yesterday.
After a series of tests over the past week, the Zadge found out that she has suspicious growths in her left boob that look malignant. The Big C.
When she first found out last week that her mammogram showed something suspicious, she texted her ex, Dr. Boy Toy. See, Dr. Boy Toy, while a boob himself, is also a radiologist who specializes in boob radiology. She asked him if she should be nervous and he assured her “No, not yet. Very routine.” So the Zadge didn’t worry.
Then yesterday morning, she had a series of additional tests. When the radiologist came in to give her the news, the Zadge could tell just from his face something was wrong. And sure enough, something was wrong. He gave her the news that he suspected a malignancy and that she would have to have a biopsy to confirm. The biopsy is set for Thursday.
So a shell-shocked Zadge left the doctor’s office and texted Dr. Boy Toy exactly what the radiologist had told her. His response, “I’ll call you tonight.” Which he did. And he said, “Yes, that sounds like it could be malignant.” And then he described the process, which includes big needles stuck in the Zadge’s boob, and an MRI, and then possibly a lumpectomy, or a mastectomy depending on the lab results, and then radiation, and possibly chemo, and possibly a double mastectomy due to how dense the Zadge’s breast tissue is, among other things. He told her he would help her any way he could.
The Zadge hung up. And then our Intrepid Heroine, she who usually is quite fearless and a renowned ass-kicker, promptly had a total meltdown. Weeping, she started imagining the Baby Goose falling out just as she had spent two years letting it grow long. She started picturing her scarred chest. She saw herself puking from the chemo. She began googling “suspicious microcalcifications” and “ductal carcinoma in situ” and “breast reconstruction.” You know, she lost her shit. And man, are there a lot of saggy boobs out there getting reconstructed.
Then she went to bed and tossed and turned all night while sweet little Bugs snored next to her.
She woke up and looked at herself in the mirror. And she made a decision.
She had allowed herself one night to wallow in it. Now it was time to put on her big girl panties. Fuck it, she said to herself. I’m not going to die from this. The worst that can happen is they cut the shit out of my boobs and I lose my hair.
And if that happens, she decided she was going to buy the best blonde, long, supermodel-hair wig that exists, and she was going to bump up her little boobs into some big TaTas. And then she’d be good as new.
After all, if life gives you the Big C, go up to the Big C cup.