If I had a rocket launcher...

The place where I get my mammograms done is rescheduling mine because... they've decided to stop doing diagnostic exams on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

This is the same place that sent me a form letter a few months ago announcing when my mammogram would be. Without consulting me first about what times would work for me.

So, I'm wondering what the message is? Because it feels something like this: Hey, cancer survivor. We know you are just sitting at home with your gold AmEx card flipping through the home shopping channels. Since you're not capable of doing anything worthwhile, we expect you'll be happy to come have your boob hammered flat whenever we feel like doing it. And, yeah, we have Saturday appointments... with openings sometime in 2010.

Another country heard from

"You just have to decide if you're a Tigger or an Eeyore. I think I'm clear where I stand on the great Tigger/Eeyore debate. Never lose the childlike wonder. It's just too important. It's what drives us."

Randy Pausch, 1960-2008 (pancreatic cancer)

A Junior brain trapped in a Misses body

I went clothes shopping. Again. This summer has found me in a fruitless search for a cute little summery dress, some cool casual tops, and maybe a nice button down shirt or two for dressy casual.

Here's the challenge: my flat-chested temple of a body doesn't lend itself easily to this year's fashion trends. Low cut bodices that show exactly what color my fake boobs (foobs!) are won't do. And the dresses that don't have the low cut V neckline have the deep U little milkmaid style bodices with puffed sleeves that are so not flattering on fifty year old arms. And the foobs are visible in either one.

That said, I'm not ready to give up and start wearing men's T-shirts. I'm going back to my sewing machine. We've been apart for awhile, but we need to get back together and heat up the sewing room.

Stay tuned.

Why so serious?

"What doesn't kill you makes you stranger."

--Joker, "The Dark Knight"

Schwety boobs

Oh how I hate going to the east coast in the summer. It's hot, which is bad enough, but the humidity pretty much guarantees that my strap-on boobs are going to feel worse than usual, all damp and sweaty. They have these COOLMAX® pads that lay between the plastic encased blob of femininity and my skin, but that's only so helpful since the COOLMAX® pads are covered in some space age material that doesn't breathe on its own, it has to be shot fulla holes to make it cooler. And it's all encased in a fabric boob cover, sort of like socks for tits, but the cotton they are made of NEVER cools off.
Maybe someone could invent boobs that cool, like a cooling vest only smaller and able to fit inside a bra. I bet a lot of women, and not just mastectomy mavens would like to have something chilly to strap onto their chests when it gets hot.

That's enough. I'm going to watch some opera now. Jessye Norman rocks.

Let's draw a tasteful veil across the scene

Dear sister-in-breast-cancer:

I don't know how to tell you this nicely, but discussing your vaginal dryness with me at a co-ed cocktail party? SO not a bonding experience.

"You'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life."

Dear reader, the odds are good that at some point in your middle age, your doctor will diagnose some condition and tell you, "You'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life."

Surprisingly, this means you'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life. When things break after 40, they tend to stay broken. We learn this every day, yet denial remains one of the most powerful forces in the universe, stronger Peet's coffee or the under-car suction force that attracts Frisbees and dropped keys.

I'm typing this with one very tender left hand. I had a lymphedema flare-up last week, and my knuckles and fingers are still as puffy as if I had punched a wall. Which, frankly, sounds like a good idea right about now. I don't really know what sparked the flare-up -- maybe my lymph system reacted to the touch of flu I seem to have acquired, maybe I overused my left tipping books off the library shelves at my daughter's school for the end-of-year inventory. Maybe I put too much stress on my left side doing the physical therapy for my right shoulder -- the right shoulder I strained last spring trying not to overuse my left hand.

So I've spent the past nine days doing two sets of physical therapy exercises a day, one for my shoulder, one for my arm. Plus walking my daughter to school every day -- gotta get the aerobic exercise in to control my estrogen levels. Plus having the flu. I'm telling you, it's a good thing I don't have to go to a 9 to 5 right now, because my boss would be pretty close to firing my ass. As it is, I'm behind on household projects and I haven't even started to think about prep work for my fall classes.

My husband, trying to be helpful during one of my freakouts, said, "Don't worry -- you won't have this forever."

I just about snapped his head off. Because that's what I realized last week: Yes, I will. Yes, I have lymphadema. And I'm going to have to deal with this for the rest of my life.