Some things aren’t supposed to be lumpy. No one wants to pour lumpy gravy on their mashed potatoes. When’s the last time your kids said “Mom, would you make me some super lumpy oatmeal for breakfast?” Or how ’bout “I want the lumpy pillow!” I’m struggling to think of something that is nice when it’s lumpy… yeah, I’ve got nothing!
I do know a few things that are scary when they’re lumpy. Like armpits. Or worse, boobs! There’s not a girl in the bloggosphere who stares at Cosmo and thinks “If only my breasts could be filled with lumps!”
We all know it happens. It doesn’t matter if you’re gorgeous or homely, tall or short, fat or skinny, a mother or an all-out kid-avoider, sometimes the lumps land in you!
In a perfect world, we could just run to the doctor, point at the lump, and voila, it would be eradicated. I’d like to live in that perfect world. My mother had an irregular mammogram when she was 42, but on second look, they decided it must’ve been a mistake. Fast forward two years, when she had become this grumpy, exhausted, emotional, neurotic shell of herself, and a huge lump appeared. It was like a pimple on the back of her shoulder. The lump that wouldn’t disappear. FInally she drug herself to the doctor to have a stab at it, and what did he say?
“This lump doesn’t look so pimply to me… better look more carefully!” Stage 4 was the reply. Stage 4! My 44 year old mother had stage 4 breast cancer in the exact spot her last mammagram had “probably” been ruined by a shadow of some sort. That’s a fancy way of saying they screwed the pooch on this one folks! They missed the golden oppurtunity to nip it in the bud.
I would rant a little more on the subject, but there’s no time for that. We’re too busy thanking the lucky stars and the good Lord that modern technology saved not only her, but her boobs too! Hey, when a piece of your identity hangs on being boob-a-liscious, you don’t just run out an cut them off like you’re Angelina Jolie or something.
I always thought I totally understood where my mother was coming from, and now I think I was wrong. I didn’t totally understand, but I’m starting to.
A few months ago I noticed a huge lump under my left breast. Apples don’t fall from from trees, so I ran straight to the doctor. The doctor said “well, big boobs can get a little lumpy, but we’ll take a look if it makes you feel better.”
YES! LOOK! PLEASE! I’m begging you, look at my boobies. Check them out from top to bottom and side to side and inside out and upside down. I don’t want lumpy oatmeal in my tatas!!
So I took my piece of paper and went to set up my test only to find that my “discounted fees” (a program that mimicks health insurance) would not apply to this mammagram because I am NOT 40. Not yet. So I talked myself into thinking this wasn’t a rush. I’m 37, I’ll just watch it. Surely I’m being melodramatic. Right?
Then a few weeks ago, there it was. Another lump. This one under my arm. You can’t see it, but I can feel it, so I started to feel around. Why is it that when we have something like this, we can’t just leave it alone? At least I can’t!! Then I found two more tiny lumps under the same arm… so I checked out the other arm, and there were two more over there. Five lumps! Plus that old guy I had gotten used to hanging out under my breast, he’s still around, and it seems as though he’s packing on a bit of a beer gut.
Back to the doctor I ran, only I haven’t turned 40 yet, and that’s still a problem… so in order to get my one test paid for, I have to take 10 days of antibiotics (maybe the lumps will magically melt with these) and go back for an ultrasound to see if they can see anything worth mammogramming… then it’ll be the mammogram-biopsy-make-a-plan routine I’ve heard about a dozen times.
Maybe I’m being a melodramatic drama queen. Maybe. Hopefully. But the not knowing is pretty tough. The toughest part… I had no idea who to call. Seems as though no one is really vested in being in my inner circle anymore.
I guess my fall from perfectionist has left me lonely. I can’t really talk to my husband- I’ve spent months making it where I don’t have to talk to him. I can’t really talk to any of my girlfriends. Either they are tired of me having sick stories or they think I’m crazy to be tired of my husband. You know that damn Facebook pic, the one that says “A real friend doesn’t care if your house is messy or your kids are crazy or your jeans are bigger than you’ll admit to…” (it goes something like that) …well… if that’s the standard, I’m not sure who I have left standing.
So I guess this is one of those times in life where you just have to take your lumps, and roll them out, all by yourself. Funny, I started on a journey to stop acting like I had it all together. And now, clearly, I do not have it all together. I’m all by myself… alone and lumpy!!