for reals

i got a etter from my insurance today. i can't believe it. they approved me for my mastectomy. there's another letter approving me for my reconstruction. i've been waiting for a phone call saying that it was denied. wow.

15 days

i've had a cold since before easter. then i woke up with food poisoning this morning. blerg. i really want to be in tip-top shape for my surgery. i'm feeling anxious this weekend, not really sure why. we went dancing last night. ugh. 

17 days - the emotionally stunted partner

i love danny. sofuckingmuch. yes, he's stubborn. yes, he's useless around the house. yes, he thinks reading is passe and that half & half is just as good in coffee as skim milk (blasphemy!). but for whatever reason i enjoy his company in every sense. i'm so comfortable around him that sometimes i forget that he didn't live the backstory with me. and since he doesn't like to listen to or talk about things that have the potential to upset him, he knows only snippets of the backstory that i was able to tell him when he was either trapped in the car with me or so inebriated that he was basically immobilized. despite his latent emotional state, i only briefly considered giving danny the opportunity to opt-out of supporting me through this. nope, we're 30. we're raising three kids. we've been together for almost 5 years. so um, deal with it. you aren't bailing now dummy. i don't care how freaked out by blood you are. the last two months have (so far) allowed me to identify:


The Four* Stages of 'Accepting' That Your Partner is 'Having Her Tits Chopped Off'


  1. ignoring - this is what i like to refer to as the 'talking over you' stage or the 'selective hearing' stage. gently broaching conversation from a scientific point of view at this point will prove unsuccessful. emotional 'woman talk' will be unequivocally unacceptable too. expect to be interrupted by boring work stories that are MUCH more pressing than your alleged-potential-so-far-in-the-distance breast cancer caused by that thing that happened to you like, YEARS ago that involved toxins and radiation that you will not be talking about now, or later. while you will get no feedback during this stage, rest assured that at least some of the scariest words from your 'conversations' will sink in. waaaaay in. which brings us to stage two:
  2. emotional vomiting - with sub-stages a) drunken blurting b) YouTube-ing c) angry bartering d) crying in your friends' bosoms - this stage happens rapidly and will be painful for all parties involved. speaking of parties, be forewarned that this stage will most likely to happen at a party (or other event with copious amounts of alcohol). for example, you may find yourself standing in a group of your favorite hipsters, in say, el cerrito, at a pig roast, conversing about foodie things when your partner walks up and drunkenly blurts 'hey, she's getting new tits. they're chopping those ones off because they're poison and i think she should get antlers instead of implants. get it? a new RACK? see what i did there? RACK?' thankfully, other party-goers will probably be drunk at this point too, so now is a great time to announce your surgery to the general public. they'll be receptive and make you promise to show them your cool nippleless foobs after surgery. yesssss. meanwhile, your partner will have a chance to retreat to the den with his wine-garita-isky and iPhone for important solitary processing. and by processing, i of course mean YouTube-ing the word 'mastectomy.' (i do not recommend this btw). after less than four seconds of graphic surgery video he will tell you that your decision is 'stupid and disfiguring and you canNOT do it. seriously.' now is the time to distract him with a conveniently placed set of mini antlers (seriously) and concede nothing. steer him in the direction of an attractive and trustworthy female friend who will willingly stroke his hair while he buries his face in her bosoms and lays out all of his fears. it is best to pretend not to know that he processed, in 45 seconds flat, what you've been trying to get him to process for months. 
  3. externalizing - stage three is f.u.n. and a chance to bond through parallel denial, personal grooming, and obsessive shopping. at this point you may find yourself in a bit of denial as well, having recently heard all kinds of terrifying things about those few seconds of video your partner saw on YouTube. that's okay, because now is a good time, for both of you, to channel your nervous energy into selfish pursuits that have no real bearing on your mastectomy. for your partner this will mean transitioning his well-loved and ironic grief mustache into a finely manicured and frequently-combed representation of his powerful manhood and ability to handle what is about to happen. it will also mean that (while you are shopping for the perfect sweatshirt with inside pockets for drains) he will be searching for the perfect sport coat so that the doctors will know, in a vague way, that he 'means business' the day of your surgery. there is a slight regression back into the ignoring stage here as you will talk over each other frequently about your successes and failures in the retail realm. expect to be ignored in your excitement over sports bras that close in the front and return the favor by ignoring his lamentations of how difficult it is to find a sport coat with elbow patches these days.
  4. satirizing - after weeks (and possibly months) of stage three, inevitably you both will have to move into the less costly stage four. stage four is all about inappropriate comedy. now is a good time to start listening to each other again - you won't want to miss gems such as how he made his coworker gag while telling him 'how gross it's going to be when i have to empty your drains.' pus/blood/nipple humor never gets old. for reals. during this stage be prepared to talk about things such as hilariously large (back-breaking-ly large, really) breasts found on porn sites that he thinks you should get. during this phase it is perfectly appropriate to threaten not to share the copious amounts of narcotics you will soon be in possession of and hope out loud that what comes out of your drains smells really really bad, even if it means infection. 


* i am open to the possibility of more stages

(still) 18 days - wherein my breasts are a metaphorical swarm of bees and also the one where i am sublimating the second realization of my own mortality through a search for ill-fitting button up shirts for post mx

(yes, i'm cross posting from facebook. for posterity and shit.)

dear gob, someone take away my keys. left to my own devices i went shopping again today. thankfully (?) i'm broke and limit myself to thrift stores and extreme clearance racks. i got four more button up shirts today (i only had one) and a pair of levis (all for $30, but still) (holy shit, look at me justify this). i've been contemplating packing my hospital bag and laying out outfits to wear but i've been successful in distracting myself by making chicken broth (also, wtf? i don't do that either...)

driving away from savers today i had the oddest sensation that my chest was being swarmed by bees, or crawling with ants. before diagnosing me with schizophrenia, i'll tell you that i mean this mostly metaphorically and am not actually contemplating removing my own breasts before may 8th. but the urgency. my brain is shouting: get these fucking stretch-marked death bags OFF of us. (no i don't believe in a separate spirit but apparently draw firm lines between mind and body when having psychotic breaks.)



18 days (technically) i should know better

i should know better than to stay up all night reading cancer blogs when i know the how the stories end. i should know better than to imagine myself in their positions, as mothers, trying to 'create memories' that 'convey who i was' for kids too young to begin to understand mortality in a tangible way. i should know better than to be so flip about all this when the truth is, the terror i feel at the thought of not having my kids is over-shadowed only by the thought of them not having me.

i cannot convince myself anymore that this is just about meh percentages (plane crashes and lottery tickets aside) and insurance having to pay and me getting perky new foobs for free. this is about disregarding disfiguration because i feel duped. because nobody told me when i was 17 and unafraid to die, comfortable in it even, that i'd be thirty and choking down my own happiness. this is about the rabid feeling of loving these incredible (and terrible) little people in a way that makes me want to be flip and really really really old.