It was just two days ago when Kim Rhodes, a TV Superhero asked if finding a lump always meant something bad. I respect Kim and so I told her to see a doctor…thankfully she was already on the ball.
It was because Kim asked this question that I decided to tell my doctor I had found some lumps of my own and ask if I should be concerned. As it turns out, I have reason to be concerned. More importantly, my doctor is concerned. Not just at the fact that there are lumps…but that there are clusters of them.
We don’t know if they are cancerous, but he’s expecting surgery to remove them at the very least. So right now I am waiting to have a mammogram.
Anyone who has been born with female genitalia more so than men (it’s more common in women so don’t get pissy) understands exactly what I am going through right now.
Growing up in the 90s especially, Breast Cancer was always something we women heard a lot about. So we’ve always known that it’s a possibility, and whether or not we want to admit it we think about it…we worry about it.
So here I am. I’m now in the situation I never wanted to be in. You know what’s crazy? I’m afraid of having breast surgery. I’ve always told myself that when I got old enough I’d have them lifted because 44Ds are heavy as hell, but…now that surgery on my breasts is a very real possibility I’m scared. I’m more afraid of that then the idea of having cancer to be perfectly honest.
These things have been with me since I was born. They’ve grown and shifted and changed with me. As it is I’ve already been told that attempting to get pregnant again might end my life due to my anemia. There is whether you agree or disagree a fear of the loss of my femininity.
If I cannot give birth, if I cannot do the one thing that women’s bodies are supposed to do which is procreate….then why am I here? What is my purpose? And yes to all you insane feminists I know that’s not the only reason women exist, but this is how it feels, like it or not. I feel like a part of my identity is in the process of being stolen from me.
I want to cry, I want to shake my fists at the sky and scream why me? I want to stomp my feet and bargain and do anything I can to prevent the words coming from his mouth. Yet I know none of that will do any good. The results will be whatever they are going to end up being no matter what I do or don’t do.
At this point it’s a waiting game but I have to tell you I’m fucking angry. I’m pissed the fuck off. Haven’t I been through enough? Haven’t I helped as many people as I can help? What the fuck did I do to deserve everything I’ve been through? Why me? I don’t deserve to go through this, this horrendous mind fuck.
I don’t deserve to sit here and worry and wonder whether or not I’m going to have to have a double mastectomy or what might even be worse, having pieces of my breasts cut away forever. I don’t deserve to sit here and worry about who will walk my dog and who will make sure that mom has something to eat and can get into her chair okay.
I DON’T FUCKING DESERVE THIS.
No one does. I’ve always from afar admired women who fight breast cancer, who do so with grace and a strength that they can’t possibly feel. How do you not panic and freak out and scream and cry? How do you not curse the Gods and give up?
Can I give up now? Just two days ago I wrote about how strong I am how I can take anything, and I was genuinely happy. And now here I am, and I am faking a strength for my friends and family that I don’t really feel.
I want to cry I just don’t see the point. I’ve never believed in having a bucket list because I honestly have always felt like the moment you create one you’re just asking for trouble and yet running through my mind are all the things that I haven’t done that I want to do before my time comes.
I want to meet Joss Whedon and hug him and thank him for turning me into a writer. I want to sit with Charles Bivona and hear him read his poetry, I want to go meet my friends Kali and Ace in Boston and drink beers until we cannot see straight. I want to know if Kim Rhodes – a huge inspiration – is going to be the only main female character of Supernatural to make it to the last episode….I’ll be really pissed if they kill her off…and yet it would somehow seem….almost poetic if she died in the very last episode.
I want to jump out of a plane and meet Chris Evans and watch a Patriots game with him so I can laugh all evil like when they FINALLY lose. Okay I don’t really want to jump out of a plane, but if Chris Evan’s can do it so can I…I’m definitely stronger than he is.
I’d really like to meet all of the people who inspire me, to sit and talk with them over a fire pit and a river made of beers. I want to be the person I said I was just the other day – a genuinely happy person. I’ve earned that right.
I want to finish my fucking novel that I haven’t even really started. I’m not ready to be dead, and I sure as fuck am not ready to deal with having Cancer, so I’m not going to.
I refuse to have cancer because I REFUSE to die in Surrey British Columbia’s Surrey Memorial Hospital. I’ll jump out of a plane without a parachute before I allow that to happen.
Nope. I’m not ready to be sick so I am not going to be. I am going to keep writing and I am going to keep fighting and when the mammogram comes back and we head into the surgical room I’ll go in with my head straight.
I’ll be taking pictures of my breasts every day so that no matter what I’ll remember the journeys I took with these mothers. These massive balls of fat hanging from my body that have legit snuggled up against my arms every night for thirty four years and ten days.
These are my lovely lady lumps and I’m not in the mood to let Cancer destroy them.
I admire every woman or man who’s ever had to go through Breast Cancer, I think you are all fucking amazing, but I am absolutely not going to be one of you. I just don’t have time.
All my love,