I watched the door close behind the mammo-tech. She went to ask the radiologist if anything more would be needed. Left alone in the xray room with the boob masher machine, I glared at the thing. It had a little pink ribbon decal on the side.
"Fuck you," I whispered.
I had been called back for another look after a recent mammogram. And now they want to schedule an ultrasound. Yes, there's a little tiny thing. I hate to even use the word, it's so freighted. But yes, the word was mass. And they have to see if it's benign or not.
You know what my reaction was? Bring it.
When you get old, you get wrinkles and all kinds of stupid stuff that you don't want. But you know what you maybe also get? Tough.
I'm tired of being scared. I'm ready for fearlessness. I'm entering the Crone stage, I think. Put a cape over my shoulders and a giant C on my chest. Read it any way you want, I'm feeling awesome. Powerful.
I've had more than my share of health alerts and surgeries in my 57 years. Enough that when I got this latest, I think the radiologist was thrown by all the 'tude coming at her.
Whatever happens, happens. Do what you gotta. Life is good.
I dedicate this post to my friend who is in the middle of being treated for an aneurysm behind her eye, and to my other friend who just recovered her 17-handicap three years after her aneurysm - in her brain. To my three girlfriends who were recently widowed. To my 86-year-old mom who is hoping to drive as soon as her broken leg heals.
Life: Bring. It.