First off, I have had A LOT of caffeine, so hold on. Also, it’s my birthday. It is also Prince’s birthday and Tom Jones’ birthday. We’re all going for Sundowners later. It’s Tom’s turn to pay. I’m one of those annoying people who loves everyone else’s birthday and likes to skulk around about my own. My children greeted me this morning at 7:00 with a paper birthday crown decorated with crayons and breakfast in bed. (This has become a tradition in my house for reasons that still elude, and when it’s not my birthday, depress me). The girls covered my tray with a festive plastic place mat, a paper napkin in a fancy napkin ring, six turkey sausages, my Kashi GoLean high fiber cereal (I don’t even own a hatch-back wagon) with matching fork, and four buttered toasted English muffins. Hotel-worthy continental breakfast. Minus the gimicky waffle-maker. This year was a huge nutritional improvement over last year when the children’s buffet breakfast in bed for me consisted of a donut, a danish, a sticky bun, donut holes, a muffin and four slices of bacon. It’s so true that we all give gifts we wish to receive.
So, as the caffeine was saying, I had a little surgical procedure on Monday where they removed some tissue under my left nipple. I swear it didn’t hurt at all. Not that I’m advocating everyone go out and get their nipples excised, but I’m just here to provide rays of sunshine that it’s possible to have parts of your body removed and it not be a big deal. The surgeon advised that she would call me this week when the pathology came back from the lab, to let me know if it was cancer. I’ve been waiting for the cancer call all week. It’s been about two full weeks that I’ve been alerted to a bothersome spot on my left breast (the right one was the cancery one) and they’ve been trying to access the pesky spot to no avail with ultrasound, mammography and MRI. I’ve been rather proud of myself that I haven’t let it wig me out too much. But then yesterday I realized I was starting to get twitchy every time my phone rang. Also, I may be PMSish. Delightful combo. I’ve been waiting for a blocked or unknown number to appear, as that’s usually the medical community calling me.
Still Waiting For the Cancer Call
I took my children to the AT&T store today for a repair. The girls, not realizing they were giving me heart palpitations, kept calling me from the display phones (with rapid succession unknown numbers showing up in caller I.D.) in the show room. I couldn’t tell them to “FUCKING STOP IT! I’M WAITING FOR THE CANCER CALL!” so I just smiled serenely instead. Also, since it’s my birthday, my friends were all calling my phone to sing off-key to me. Thus, after my 24 hour vigil, in the middle of Target, after about 20 false-alarm calls, the surgeon finally called me to advise that I just had some sneaky, low-rent benign cysts. Stupid fucking cysts. Histrionic bastards. Always wanting their fifteen minutes of fame that only tumors seem to get. Whhhhaaaaa, I say. And that’s why you can’t jump to conclusions. It’s pointless. You know when you know. Cysts were a very nice birthday present indeed. I may order them next year. With powdered sugar and some strawberries. And maybe next year they will give me a spork. I wish sporks and strawberries for all your birthdays. Gosh, I’m an upbeat lady!