thilly thenny

Oh. My. God.

I haven’t been able to tell anyone because I’ve been too busy freaking out inside my head.  Last night, I was lying in bed, a bit tipsy and very happily full, when I noticed a bump in/on my right breast.  No, I know what you’re thinking… don’t freak out; it must be just a mosquito bite.  Oh, no.  There was no puncture point and the lump (yes! it was an entire lump!) was fully below my skin.  Maybe I couldn’t get a great angle since it was on the underside of my boob, and the lighting down there isn’t so great, but I’m pretty frigging sure at this point it’s not a bite, pimple or anything calming.

I subsequently began to freak out.  Thoughts of “I knew I would die young,” “how will I pay for chemo,” and “what’s going to happen to me” all started to attack me.  What if I lost my boob?  What if it goes into my lymph nodes and I get lymphatic cancer, if that’s what it’s supposed to be called.  What if it spreads?  Do I really want to go through chemo after I saw my grandmother wither away and die?  I’m going to lose all my hair!!!  I don’t want to walk around with a fake breast stuffed into a bra.  I’d have to always wear a bra!  I’d be so unbalanced.

So I did the next logical thing: watch TV.  From David Letterman to Jimmy Kimmel to Conan O’Brien streamed online, I just kept my brain off of any thought processes whatsoever.  Thank the Lord, I actually fell asleep.

This morning, I proceeded to make an appointment with my doctor, which was at 3pm (!!!).  Thankfully work has been so hectic that I haven’t been able to focus on my boob and how much it really adds to my quality of life.  At 2:30, I couldn’t wait any longer.  I walked the 5 minutes over to my doctor’s office (thanking my lucky stars that I chose a provider close to work), filled out some paperwork and was on my way.  My doctor is a very nice man.  A little hard of hearing and sometimes a bit creepy, but he’s knowledgeable, caring and helpful- actually treats you like a person and not another round.

I explain the situation to him.  He gets a bit worried because apparently boobs aren’t his expertise and I should check with my OB GYN (who does treat me like a number) to get the inside scoop after he takes a preliminary look.  The color has now drained from my face, even with the sweltering heat in the office and outside.  (Why San Franciscan’s don’t invest in AC is a complete mystery to me.)  I’m wearing one of those disposable hospital gowns worrying about how much trash I’m generating because I comfortable enough with my body that I wouldn’t mind standing there completely naked in front of him.  I mean it’s medicine.  Like art, after a while the body becomes a specimen and not a sexual/expressive organ.  Right?

The doctor knocks and walks in with a female nurse.  I guess he wanted to make sure I was comfortable.

“Point to where the lump is.”

He takes a quick glance, a light rub and has the most inquisitive look on his face.

“It’s an infection.  Germs or something got into one of your ducts.  You see, the lump’s in the skin, not deep inside your breast.  It’s not cancer.  If it were, it’s be in the masses of your breast.  Take [this medicine] twice a day for 7-10 days and apply a heating pad.  You’ll be fine.”

It’s not a cyst.  It’s not cancer.  It’s not a spider that laid eggs on my boob during my sleep.  It’s a freakin’ infected ‘duct.’  After about 20 minutes of paperwork, I made my way out of the office.  I realize at this point, it’s 4:00, and I still have ass-load of work to do.  But I don’t really care.  I don’t have to quit my job or take time off to enjoy life while I still can.  There is no thoughtful suicide plan, which I had devised during the 20 minute waiting in the little room involving selling all my stuff, donating the rest to charity and leaving a suicide note in my car with all the relevant contact numbers and the words “I’ve gone home” in Chinese; home being taking an eternal dive into the Pacific.  (I like to cause as little paperwork/frustrationg upon my death as possible.  I’m morbid; I’m aware.) 

Other than feeling a little stupid for the freak out in the third paragraph, I’m fine.  A-freakin’-O-Kay! PHEW!

Fan-fucking-tastic.