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11.15.2012

THE TALE OF ONE BEEZER



I thought about what to write today.  It was a tie.  The comparison of Brach's caramels to Kraft caramels or the adventures of my left boob.  Tails, left boob.  Heads, caramels.  Tails won.

Breasts, mine and others, have been a subject of many of my writings.  Some may think it a fixation, boob envy, or even strange to talk out loud about their girlie parts in the manner in which I do.  I call most things like I see them, boobs included.  And, since I see mine daily it gives me fodder. 

My breast cliff notes read as follows: 

I didn't get any breasts really until I was about 15 years old.  I measured 27 inches in bust size in 7th grade,  The biggest size they ever increased to was during my one pregnancy and that was to a 34 C.   They were referred to as "beezers" when I was young as though they were the understudy to real substantiated breasts.  Cleavage is a foreign word to me much like anything written in Russian is.  I have a wide open four lane highway between my breasts.  My friend dubbed them "wee mounds" which, from a writing word picture standpoint, is a great visual description!  I once tried to duct tape around my chest to create cleavage for a picture to entertain my girlfriends.  I was even unsuccessful in that venture and could get them still no closer than one full car length from each other.  My best friend in school shoved me while clowning around before math class while I was holding a pencil.  I fell forward on the desk implanting a piece of the graphite/lead into my non-existent cleavage area.  It still resides there today.  Once in 9th grade I dove into the swimming pool at a boy-girl party and as I came to the surface so did my now bare breasts.  Tony P. got a smiling eye full. It's not that they were big, but what 15 year old boy doesn't want to see even a beezer!  They presently are a bit lower than they used to be failing prey to the natural law of gravity and age.  I measure in currently at a 32 almost A cup.  Wearing a bra is very optional for me as most of the time you can't tell whether I have one on or not.  I sweat profusely in between my breasts when I run garnering that gift from my Grandma Weldy who had extra sweat genes.  There are men out there who LOVE and PREFER small breasted women even though the Porn industry says different.  I do most definitely have the upper body of a 12-14 year old but with collagen poor skin.  My husband says they are the most beautiful he's seen.  He claims he could pick  them out of a line-up.  Not sure in what world that would happen!
 
I thought all those thoughts about my breasts this past week as I have had two separate mammograms, and today, a left breast biopsy.  My breasts have seen more strangers in a week than their whole lifetime!  They have also been gal handled, squished, squeezed, marked with a black marker, poked, cored into like an apple and left a bit sore and bruised.
 
We live in an overly cautious medical world.  Fear reigns supreme in early diagnosis both for the patient and a clinic.  It saves lives, I get it.  Thankful I am for technology to detect minuscule granules in breasts even. 
 
The radiologist came to talk to me earlier this week, after the second mammo in a week.  He said, "If we cannot, without 98% certainty, identify what we see a biopsy is performed."  Being the realist that I am, practical beyond measure, not wanting to waste time and money and mental energy on this, I wondered if he could say with say 80-90% certainty what he was seeing.  Those percentages were high enough for me. 
 
I felt caught between a system of over precaution and fear of the momentum of my life changing.  I like neither of them.  You know I won $65.00 in a slot machine while on vacation over the summer.  Would I gamble my chances or do the due diligence?  How many times are tests ordered for liability reasons?  Was this one of them?  I was willing to gamble that it was nothing but being done to verify it to the 98% mark.  My husband was not. 
 
Sitting on the stereotactic mammo chair with my left breast firmly implanted between the plexi-glass plates much like a flattened Wendy's hamburger between a bun, I felt panic rise in me.  I had inherited a bit of claustrophobia from my Great Grandfather Warren.  Combine that with not wanting to be there, the uncomfortable can't-get-a-full-breath because of the angle and the inability to wiggle about, I fought the urge to cry and run.  Instead I did what I do, used irreverent humor to move myself away from serious want to suck me in stuff.
 
The woman doctor, whom I had never met before that moment, walked into the room after I was pretty well prepped for the actual coring.  She introduced herself and I responded, "Great to meet you!  The nurses and I just finished up shooting this year's Christmas card photo."  The crowd exploded.  I felt my panic diminish as I took to the mike slinging boob humor like flap jacks at the IHop.  The doctor said she never ever had anyone tell her they were going to use that shot in the chair on their Christmas card.
 
She said the words that I tell my husband and daughter I get alot, "You are so funny!".  Golly gee whiz doc, I KNOW IT!!!  They would both of course never believe me that yet ANOTHER person gave me the you are so funny accolade.  They are poor losers.  The both of them:)  I will go for the laugh, even while having black marker marked on my left breast, a tube the size of a grade school thick pencil sticking out of it and blood dripping down the hospital gown that was designed for someone 3 times my size. 
 
Remember the Disney song from the movie "Snow White", ..... whistle while you work?  Snow White sang it.  Now I just have to whistle while I wait to find out if those 20 samples were just a clearing of any liability sort of thing or if they were a life saving sort of thing.
 
I left them wanting an encore by saying upon my departure, "It's a good thing I don't make a living by showing these things off.  I would starve to death!"

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