I just wanted to make sure everyone knows that she is recovering well.  She had a rough first day and night due to nausea and her pain medications not working.  As you can see, she’s resting comfortably now. She might kill me when she finds out I posted a pic of her sleeping, but I wanted you all to rest assured her surgeon has made sure that she’ll continue to receive great post-operative care at home. He and his OR team commissioned Hugh and gave him his new uniform.  She woke up in the recovery unit to Hugh dressed in this outfit

In all seriousness, thank you all for being so kind and supportive of her.  She always says she has the best blog readers, and you all have certainly proven that. Let’s all drink a bourbon toast tonight in hope that her pathology shows the margins on the excised tissue are clean, and that there’s no lymph node involvement, so she can avoid chemotherapy.

The day after I got the final word about my genetic testing, Marcus and I hit the road. I borrowed my Dad’s convertible, and we set off for Tellico Plains (I waved hi to Benton’s Bacon as we passed by).

We took a detour to get doughnuts. And sex toys. And tobacco.

We seemed to start out with a good omen. My dad has Sirius radio. Right as we entered Tellico Plains and saw the Tellico River, this song came on:

Of course it was followed by this song:

Then we hit the Cherohala Skyway.

This is one of my favorite drives in East Tennessee/North Carolina. It’s like the Smokies without all the people burning their brakes out on the downhill sections.

We stopped in at the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest. Ate some lunch. Hugh loved the peace and quiet.

We went on a short hike

Foam Flowers – missed most of the wildflowers this year, but will lay in them next year.

 Wild irises are gorgeous.

 These trees make me feel insignificant. That’s been comforting these past few weeks.

We headed back on The Dragon. Eleven miles has 318 curves. They’re really fun in a sports car.

I promise after I get rid of my cancer, I’ll actually remember to shoot videos the correct way. 

Then made a detour to the Little River. Hugh got a little wistful.

Marcus and I got a little wistful. It was part of our first real date.

Then we smiled because the salad days will never be over.

We visited Cades Cove where we got to see coyotes, deer, bluebirds, a copperhead and a mama bear with two of her babies.

 This view will never get old. Ever.

 This turkey just wants to get laid.

 Hugh is fascinated with wood stove cookery. He’s so strange that way.

 A drive-by shot of Mama bear and one of her babies.

A tip for those of you snapping pictures of baby bears. Always make sure there are people in front of you. That way they’ll get eaten before you do. You’re welcome.

Saturday morning, I hugged some of the people I love. I miss so much being part of the vendor community this year.

 Art and I love bacon & beer. It’s true love.

 Dave from VG’s Bakery. Hugh agrees with me how delicious his baked goods are. 

 Lisa and her gorgeous glass artwork are amazing. And we got photobombed. It would have been so much cooler with Kevin Spacey.

Saturday night we had friends over for barbecue. Marcus cleaned the house, my mom brought baked beans and potato salad, and our friends brought delicious dishes to share. I took a nap. I love our motley group of friends. Marcus’s second mom was there, and it was so much fun to fill her in on the escapades Marcus and her son used to get into.

There should be lots of pictures here. I had too much fun to take them. I promise to get some at the “This shit is over” party.

Sunday I headed to church, got so many hugs and tons of love. My mom took me shopping. I now have an adorable sundress. And new pillows. And we got the news that close friends of ours got to bring their baby home from the hospital.

I have a picture of her gorgeous little girl riding Hugh. It’s awesome. I wish I could post it. Just imagine how awesome it is.

It’s time to get this shit on the road, so I can leave it in my dust. There are too many things to make fun of: rusty “vintage” cooling racks, stripey paper straws and bakery twine. Never forget bakery twine.

Thanks for the support! Thanks for the love! Thanks for listening to me bitch! And thank you for not posting pink ribbons in your comments. You all are the best. I have no idea how I got such a wonderful group of readers on this site.

At some point, I need a new twitter avatar. Even if Colleen is a little on the bumpy side.

Love you all. See you on the flip side of this nonsense.

Actually, when it comes to any major surgery you need to get a second opinion. Two weeks ago, I got a second opinion from a doctor at the University of Tennessee. I got another mammogram done. Another ultrasound was done. I waited a while and then met with another surgical oncologist.

He told me I was an ideal candidate for a lumpectomy. Then he explained exactly why that was so. I asked him the same question I asked the other doctor – what would you do if your mom/sister/daughter was in the same situation. He told me he’d tell them the same thing he told me. That given my age and type of cancer I have, he thinks it’s the best option. After reading more about my cancer in the Susan Love book (My mom and I refer to it as the bible of breast cancer), I feel even more strongly that a lumpectomy is the right choice.

There are risks involved. As my doctor cuts around the margins of the tumor and the precancerous cells, he sends them off to pathology. He told us that the quick test is about 75% accurate  If they find more cancer cells in the margins after they’ve done a complete pathology, they’ll have to open me up again and take more out. It still involves pain and probably some disfigurement of my breast.

One of the things I liked best about this new doctor was that he was the one who brought up issues of sexuality & self-image. As my Dad jokes, when it comes to medical issues the first thing a guy thinks of is “Am I still going to be able to have sex?”. There are a lot of doctors who aren’t candid about about how operations or medications will affect a woman sexually. This doctor didn’t talk down to us. He explained everything in complete detail. He answered every single question, and he was honest about what he couldn’t be sure of. I’m glad I got a second opinion because while I’m still scared, I feel better about having to deal with this whole mess now. Disregarding the genetic testing results, I have choices. I have options. I have the tiniest semblance of control.

If I’m able to have a lumpectomy, I’ll need to have seven weeks of radiation. That will not be fun. I also run the risk of having a much more complex type of breast reconstruction if the cancer comes back in the same breast, and I need to have a mastectomy. After thinking and talking with a lot of people, I decided to go with a lumpectomy if I’m able to. I’m willing to roll the dice. As this doctor and other people have said, I can always choose to have more removed; I can’t put anything back.

I understand why some women choose to have their entire breast removed or even both breasts removed. Just knowing that the cancer might reoccur fills them with such anxiety, that they want to do anything that will lessen the risk. If my genetic testing comes back with a really bad gene mutation, I’ll be removing both. But different women make different choices – that’s a good thing. I hope to pay back some of the kindness that’s been shown to me by women who’ve already traveled this journey. When I do that, I’m going to keep the frustrations I’ve felt and lessons I learned very much in mind.  Each of our own cancer experiences are different, and I’m learning that it’s best not to generalize. It’s best not to give advice unless asked. It’s best to do more listening than talking.

I am still waiting on the results of my genetic testing. I was told my results would be back in 10-14 days. 14 days would have been last Wednesday. I called Thursday morning to see what was going on. In the nicest way possible, I let the lady who handles all the genetic testing know that I was upset and scared. This is not an inconsequential test. The results of this test determine whether or not I’ll need a bilateral mastectomy. I called back today because the results were certainly going to be in today. I called in to find that the woman who handles all the genetic testing wasn’t working that day, and no one could help us out by giving me the answer.

I can’t even begin to explain how upset I am. My surgery is scheduled on Tuesday. I’d like more than a week to process the idea that both my breasts will have to be removed, both my ovaries will have to be removed, and that I will probably not have biological children because of the fear they might carry these genes.

I feel like one big swirling mess of fear. Genetic tests, surgery, pain, chemo, radiation – all these things swirl around and around in my mind until it seems like a tornado of despair. I go to bed and wake up – still feeling exhausted. It feels like my brain just keeps churning through the night, trying to process something that you can’t begin to sort out until you know all the information. Even then, you don’t have the time to really start processing it before you have surgery. It’s cancer, and it needs to get the hell out of your body.

I know my posts have been kind of heavy lately. Hugh the Cancer Fighting Manatee has not made nearly enough appearances. I am doing a horrible job at making cancer feel bad. I’m hoping the F-5 tornado in my brain will slow down to a F-3 once I know what fork in the road I need to take.

Update: I wrote most of this post on Tuesday. Tuesday night I found out that I didn’t test positive for any cancer gene mutations that they currently know of. Marcus and I cried for 30 minutes after we got the call. My mom cried. Hugh cried. The cats demanded our attention. We drank a toast to having faith. We drank even more. We ate cheese and watched Dodgeball. For a few hours, I felt like a regular person. I even felt a little beige.

Well, as beige as I’m ever going to get.

The last time my mom’s oncologist saw her, he gave her a hug and told her he hoped he never saw her again. Unfortunately, he did. Marcus and I got confused and came in the back way to his office, so we saw the people that were receiving chemo treatments. It always amazes me that when you see the people actually undergoing treatment, they never look as beautiful, shiny or happy as the people on the front of the cancer brochures and magazines. They look like real people going through a very trying ordeal.

  Gee My Hair Smells Terrific! Now with Extra Cancer!

I got to start out the visit with the wonderful experience of finding out I needed to have my blood drawn. I had let down my Girl Scout guard, and hadn’t thought to call and see if this was going to happen so I’d have adequate anti-anxiety medications. I tell you, there is nothing that makes you feel cooler than lying back in the medical version of a Lazyboy recliner, sobbing, crushing your husband’s hand all while your mom rubs your legs. You are also furiously trying not to hyperventilate, and after a few minutes are not successful at this. On the bright side, you manage not to pass out. It doesn’t matter how sweet and understanding the nurses are when they tell you that they see huge grown men pass out in front of them all the time. It doesn’t matter how many times my mom explains to the nurses the very horrible way that I developed this phobia. I still feel like a complete idiot. Then I get to meet the man who may become my oncologist.

 Because why not. You already have cancer.

I really liked him. The thrilling experience of having my breasts examined in front of my mom and my husband was a bit amusing. But he gave me some peace of mind about the possibility of having children. It’s not a sure thing, but I have time to process it and see what my options are after surgery.

The next day, I met with the Nurse Practioner about calculating my genetic risk. Going in, I thought I had maybe a 10%, at the most 15% risk. I brought a detailed family history, but as you get to people that are older, it’s a lot harder to do. For example, I had a great aunt that died from liver cancer. Did it start out as breast cancer? And there are always those families that are so well versed in secrets that you never know what the truth really is. I’m predominately of Irish heritage, but I’ve got a decent amount of Czech & Eastern European blood in me as well. Some doctors feel this means you have an added risk because they are also countries where Ashkenazi Jews tended to settle. It’s not something that people like to talk about, but Jewish people in these countries were persecuted constantly. When they were forced out of their homes, forced to assimilate or forced into hiding, some of them married people who were not Jewish and had children. But at one point, they lived in small villages and tended to be very insular because of their religion. Women who have a strong Ashkenazi Jewish heritage need to be very careful and get tested. They have a 1 in 40 chance of having one of the “killer” breast cancer gene mutations.

It took her quite a bit of time to get done putting all the information into the computer program she has. And the number that spit out? 31%  That number freaks me out. I don’t really think there’s a bright side to this, but my percentage was high enough for TennCare to cover the costs of the tests, so there’s that. And now I wait. If it comes back positive, the decision is made for me. Both breasts will be removed, and I’ll have to decide when to remove my ovaries because I’ll have a much higher risk of ovarian cancer.

 I paid $1 for CatPaint. Using it for no reason at all makes me feel like I got my money’s worth. Also laser beams are awesome.

I’ve noticed something very interesting about myself. I work from home. Now I usually put on a halfway decent outfit (and a swipe of lipgloss), but that’s it. Every time I’ve gone to see one of these doctors, I’ve made sure that I’m all decked out (for me). Nice dress, nice shoes, matching jewelry. I actually style my hair, and I put on real make-up. Marcus asked me at one point if it was my armor. I guess in a way it is. As stupid as this sounds, I want these men and women to see me as a put together woman who owns her sexuality and who doesn’t take it lightly. I want them to understand that I am a whole person; I am not just a set of breasts that need treating.

Believe me, I don’t look down on women who just want to cut the damn things off. I’ve had that same feeling. It’s a very strange concept to process that one of your boobs will kill you if you don’t deal with it. But there have been so many times that modern medicine ignores the fact that women are sexual beings as well. For example, there were many doctors who prescribed anti-depressants that had an adverse effect on women’s sex lives. It didn’t start getting discussed and addressed by most doctors until men took those medications and started to complain. Without grossing anyone out, I would like to have a boob left that will actually feel sensation if that’s possible. If it’s not possible, I’ll figure out a way to deal.

The thing I want most is for all of this to be a bad dream. I want to wake up with my heart pounding and covered in sweat. I want to run away and hide, hoping that this will all go away. The thing that I want most desperately is to not have cancer,

Hugh Manatee if you’re formal. Mr. Manatee if you’re nasty.

I have a friend named Lisa. She is insane. That’s a quality I really respect in a friend because it means I have to spend a lot less time explaining why my ideas are great ideas. Lisa has her own manatee. His name is Harlan. Harlan was a gift from her husband, and Harlan brings her comfort when he makes sweet, sweet manatee love to her. (This involves lots of squeezing, manatee hugs and occasionally spooning.)

I opened my door a few days after I had let my close friends and family know about my cancer and saw that I had a package from Amazon. At first I thought it was a juicer. I’ve heard that everyone diagnosed with cancer gets a free juicer. One of the cancer rules is that I now have to juice all the time. I’m down with that. Kale juice is actually pretty tasty in a bloody mary. But to my surprise, I saw a gift box. I opened it and there it was: my own personal manatee.

Hugh also likes his booze. He and I are besties now. I don’t share the same fondness for lettuce, but no one is perfect.

I spent quite a bit of time trying to decide what gender my manatee identified with. I was leaning towards a girl manatee because girl manatees seemed like they’d be more understanding of the whole having breasts things. But then my husband accused me of being sexist. He started his argument out with the fact that men can get breast cancer too, but his real argument was that guys like boobs. Therefore, my manatee should be a guy.

I still wasn’t convinced. Like baby names, I collected a cute list of girl manatee names: Esmerelda, Gertrude, Trixie (after Trixie Belden of course). But then my husband pulled out the big guns. If my manatee was a boy, he could be a drag queen. He gets me. He really does. So I allowed him to name him as a reward for that brilliant suggestion. And he came up with Hugh. Get it? HughManatee. Please don’t encourage him.

Hugh seems to be right at home here. He’s already hanging out with Peaches & Cream Ken. The cats seem to like him.

 Hugh promptly ate the flowers that another of my wonderful friends sent to me.

Hugh has been and will be joining me for all the fun cancer activities I have planned for this wonderful visit to Cancerland. He’s got his own special manatee bag.

My mom made me promise to not introduce Hugh to my doctors on any of my first visits. Luckily, Hugh’s flippers were crossed. Besides – my mom should know me better than that.

So far Hugh has gotten to put his flippers through the boob holes in my breast cancer center’s MRI machine.

Like I’ve mentioned before – a breast cancer center seems to have everything a regular cancer center does, just with boob holes in everything. He got to pose with the two lovely radiology nurses. He got to stay in the control room while my MRI was being done. My nurses seemed delighted with Hugh, and thought he and an amazingly high amount of Xanax would get me through this MRI in a very creative fashion.

I got a picture with two of doctors. The doctor that performed my biopsy and read my MRI results is here. She’s awesome. Cancer should never fuck with her.

My surgical oncologist made me promise not to post his picture all over Facebook. This is a shame because this man has gone to the Crystal River and swam with manatees. He even has a small manatee figurine (one of his staff told me). Luckily, I came up with a compromise. I only have the iPhone app for CatPaint. I was very upset to find that there was no ManateePaint app.

It’s in his surgical notes for my case that his Hugh will be able to hang out in the operating room and send me calming manatee vibes. I think he would be very good at poker, because at no time did he give me a “Bitch – you be crazy” look.

The people he works with are also amazing. George is the guy in shades. Cancer should never fuck with George.

Hugh hung out with my mom and me when I had to go to UT for bone scan & CT scan. This was terrifying. First, I had to get an IV put in. I’ve already detailed my phobia of needles. Then I had to take tests that would tell me if my cancer had gone metastatic. Luckily I had a man that was a boss at starting IVs AND he liked Hugh.

Hugh cuddled with me while I got the IV put in (He thinks I’m HILARIOUS when I take Xanax) and he helped me drink the crazy amounts of water you have to drink when you have these scans.

Like I’ve told you all before: I’m not really interested in fighting cancer. I’m leaving that up to the professionals in the medical field – both doctors and researchers. I want to get through this whole experience and put it behind me. While going through this, I want to make cancer feel really bad because I’m mocking it so much, but I know it disconcerts some of you when I say I don’t plan to kick cancer’s ass. You don’t need to be scared anymore. I’ve got Hugh. I can concentrate on getting better and mocking cancer; Hugh can attack cancer with his crazy ninja kickass cancer moves. Hugh has some amazing gun skills as well. More news on that later.

But you know what really helps? That my amazing friends and family and my wonderful blog readers understand these concepts:

I added a new item to my bucket list – swim with manatees. And all of the silly gifts, silly and/or heartfelt notes, offers to make superhero capes for Hugh and/or me and cheering me on with encouraging messages on Facebook, Twitter, my blog and the message board I run? I know exactly what that means.

I love you too. So damn much. Between Hugh and you all? I got this.

I got the final surgical evaluation of my breast last week. I listened and asked questions and was as calm and cool as a robot. I giggled in the back of my mind at the fact that a 50-ish year old man was drawing boobies on a dry erase board. Got a picture of it all for further reference. Got to hear how my MRI concerns them because it’s a bit confusing. And then went home and cried.

So the details on what’s going to happen to Colleen? For those of you just showing up – my boobs have names. I figure I can name my breasts if so many men can name their penises. I have two choices.

 Because it can never be said enough.

I can get a very invasive partial mastectomy. That would be followed up by 7 weeks of radiation five time a week. There is a possibility that the tiniest bit of cancer would be left and I might have to deal with a full mastectomy at some point anyway. And they would have to use skin from my back because the skin on my chest would be too damaged.

I can get a modified radical full mastectomy. This involves taking my whole breast, putting in an expander, and getting a new boob later. The other breast would need a slight tuck and maybe (but probably not) a small implant. The idea of me with breast implants boggles my mind. I could also get my other breast removed so my boobs would be perfectly matched, but no thanks. I’ll take my chances with the other one and retain some of my god-given rack.

 I’ll admit -these would be kind of cool.

I know this is my decision and everyone who loves me respects that. But other people who love me do play factors in it. My husband wants me to have the full mastectomy. As does my Mom. I could get the partial and then have to go through all of this again and end up getting a full mastectomy done. I asked my doctor what he would tell his wife or daughter to do. He said he’d recommend a full mastectomy.

Wednesday, I got a genetic test to make sure that I don’t have one of the myriad of genes that directly affect breast cancer. I’ll talk about that later in another post. Luckily TNCare will pay for it. If I have a gene that greatly increases my risk for breast cancer (like BRCA1 or BRCA2), I’ll probably have to have both breasts removed and possible my ovaries. I’m trying not to think about that right now. It takes a couple of weeks to get the test results back.

There have been a lot of discussions of fertility, adoption and foster care in my family the past week or two. I’d like to offer some advice to some of you on the way you should treat women who are infertile or who might not be able to have kids due to a medical condition. They don’t want to hear that there are so many ways to have kids besides the normal route. They already know that. It’s insulting – many of you chose to have a biological child instead of adopting, surrogacy or taking in foster kids. Seriously – shut up. Just shut up. Do you know how much it costs to adopt a child, either here or from another country? And do you know how heartbreaking it can be to try to adopt within the foster care system. Unless you’re willing to offer up your healthy uterus for surrogacy, please just tell that woman you’re sorry and life can be so unfair sometimes. Give her a hug. I hope you’ve all noticed that I’m pretty big on the idea of not repeating platitudes, listening instead of talking and hugs. 

I got a CT and bone scan done last week. While I was waiting for the scan, I noticed this woman just trying to hold tears back. No one was with her. My heart just hurt for her, but I didn’t want to intrude on her or seem pushy. And then I thought, “You know what? Fuck it – she’s hurting. Don’t be a coward”. I went up to her and asked her if I could give her a hug. She burst into tears and put her arms around me and just cried. I cried with her. Her husband had suffered a fall and hurt his leg and shoulder. A couple of weeks after this happened, he started acting mean towards her and telling her he was going to divorce her. It was obvious her husband had suffered a brain injury of some kind. She couldn’t even be back with him when he was waiting to get these tests done because he hated her so much. Can you even imagine? To have the love of your life fall and change so much that he hates the sight of you? I don’t even want to give her first name out, but anything you feel comfortable sending to this women and her husband (prayers, mojo, love, healing thoughts. etc) please do. She hugged me back and told me I was just a baby – that there was no reason why I should have to deal with breast cancer. And then they rolled her husband out from his tests and she had to leave. I’ve decided that I’d rather deal with the embarrassment of someone telling me that they don’t need a hug, than ignoring someone crying in front of me. Both of my CT and bone scans turned out fine which was a huge relief.

 Well yes, but you still have to drink butterflies.

I also went to visit a plastic surgeon last week. He’s known as the boob man here in Knoxville and specializes in reconstructive surgeries. I got into my little tie-front robe and talked to him about what would exactly happen if I had a full mastectomy. Then it was robe off and boobs out. I swear I’m at the point where I’m just about ready to whip my boobs out to anyone. I was at the orthopedist the other day and felt so strange sitting there fully clothed. I stood in front of this very attractive doctor while he measured my boobs. My husband sat there on the couch.

I heard about my options and what would happen. Basically my surgery oncologist does his thing and the plastic surgeon takes over. I get a new nipple constructed for me. More importantly I had to learn this interesting tidbit and can never go back to the place where I didn’t know this. I feel like it’s my duty to inform as many people as possible about this fact now. The areola? It gets tattooed on. I’m terrified of needles, so I never made any bad tattoo decisions in my 20s. My first tattoo will be an areola. If you ask nicely enough and are willing to tip me, I’m at the point where I’ll be happy to show you.

Than I got what I like to refer to as breast mugshots taken. Front view. Angle View. Side Views. Back View. And I was shown pictures of women who had work done because of breast cancer. This doctor does very nice work. He’s known for it. But the girl who never had a desire to have breast implants will now have at least one and I will always have a scar on my breast.

Again – this is another topic that people feel like they have right to comment on. Why don’t I just cut them both off so I can get a matching set? Because I really would prefer to have one boob that has some sensation in it. Why don’t I get a giant set of boobs? Because my husband has no desire for them to be bigger and I am so short that I would look like I was constantly falling over. Why don’t I get them both done so my boobs will match? You know what? I heard my measurements. I already have very symmetrical boobs. When my doctor told me that, I kind of felt like I got a B+ on my boob test. Why should I get reconstruction at all and just get a really cool tattoo there? Because I like to save my badassery for the things I say, not for the things attached to my chest. I think it would just distract from my amazing wit.

As I got dressed, my husband told me “That was a lot less weird than I thought it would be”. He paused and followed it up with “I guess that’s the closest we’ll get to having a threesome”. I laughed hysterically. We left the office, got in the car and I burst into tears. I cried the 30 minutes to my parents’ house and for about an hour more while I was there. I don’t want a new boob. I want my old one. And I have very little choice in the matter.

I still can’t believe this is happening to me. In a few short weeks, we went from baby making plans to how much boob should be removed plans. Last week was not a week full of very many good cancer jokes. Sometimes shit happens.

First of all, I’m going to throw a little basic knowledge your way just in case you have no idea what a CSA is. A CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture. A community of shareholders agree to pay for a share of a local farm’s produce. The money paid upfront allows the farm to better plan their crops and allows them to invest in their farm before the growing season begins. We – the community of consumers agree to share the risks and benefits with that farm.

My husband and I have been trying to eat locally for the last ten years. It was quite challenging at first, but Knoxville has tons of options to do that now. We’ve got wonderful stores like justripe. We have a farmer’s market almost every day (my personal favorite is the Market Square Farmers Market). Restaurants are serving meals using lots of local produce. We even have food trucks serving food made with local ingredients. And lots of farms are now offering CSAs. Last year I participated in Colvin Family Farm’s CSA. We’re a family of two. We are not vegetarians. I grow a fairly large garden. So of course we made the brilliant decision to get a full share.

And you know what? It was brilliant. We got a great deal. We had an amazing selection of produce to use that was so tasty. We were able to keep our money in our local community. We were able to support something my husband and I fervently believe in. We were able to make a political decision – every bit of money we spend on local foods and small producers keeps money out of the hands of companies that use chemicals indiscriminately, spend millions of dollars to get fat farm subsidies in their hands, and who spend untold amounts of money to keep people from learning what foods contain genetically modified ingredients or hormones that they might not want to ingest.

I was shocked by how much produce we received each week. I wasn’t shocked by how good it is. I’ve always known that produce straight from the farm and/or garden is always a lot tastier and usually higher in nutrients. And I will argue to the day I die that organically grown produce just tastes better than conventionally grown produce.

I was amazed at how adept I became with using all the produce up. I would say that altogether, we used about 90% of the produce we received. When we didn’t use produce, it was usually because our week was unduly hectic or the box contained an item we both dislike, and we weren’t able to find someone to give it to. In a nation that wastes approximately 40% of its food, I’m pretty impressed with what we were able to do.

This year I’m a virtual farmhand for Colvin Family Farms! I’m going to be sharing my tips on how to store, plan and fully utilize the produce that we’ll get in our box each week. I’ll be sharing resources that have helped me. I’ll also be sharing recipes that will give you ideas on how to use the vegetables you get in each box. Cooking CSA style is not difficult but it does take a little getting used to. There are two other bloggers this year that will be joining me, and I’m excited to see the creative ideas and recipes they use as well. Betsy is blogging at Full Tummies and Lia is blogging at Thinklia.

What am I bringing to the Virtual Farmhand table? I’ve been a food blogger for years. I know lots of food bloggers, and I know the ones who consistently post delicious recipes. I’ve been eating locally for years and know how to shop and plan a menu around the food you get. I’m an adventurous cook, but I also run my own business and do freelance writing. I don’t have endless hours to spend toiling away in the kitchen. I love trying new recipes and have had some amazing successes and some amazing failures. I will be very honest with you about how I do each week. I’m on a strict budget. I’m also adding the extra challenge of dealing with breast cancer this year to the mix.

There are various ways to follow my blog.You can subscribe to it by email or RSS feed. You can like the Facebook page for my blog – I post links there whenever a new post goes live. You can follow me on twitter, either using my general feed or be searching for the hashtag #eatyourcsa.

I post about a lot of different things here at Mouth From the South – I was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, and I often blog about that. I’m a cocktail aficionado. I post about my cats. I post pictures. I sometimes swear a lot. If you’re not interested in reading any of the above, you can just read my CSA posts and recipe posts using these links.

I’m eagerly looking forward to the day we get our first box of produce. And if you haven’t signed up but would like to, here’s a link to join: Colvin Family Farm’s CSA

Note: My husband and I paid for a CSA share last year with Colvin Family Farms. However, since I am blogging about their CSA this year, I am receiving a free share for helping out as a virtual farmhand. For the record, if this opportunity hadn’t come up, my husband and I were planning to purchase another share this year.

I am quickly learning that Einstein was right. Time is relative. It seems years since I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, and then sometimes it seems like hours. And yes – I’m waiting for you delightful nerds to tell me this is not what Einstein meant at all. Leave me alone. I have cancer.

I finally met with my surgeon this week. It’s a bit scary to call and speak to his scheduler because they always announce it’s the high risk center. My doctor was very nice. I got a basic physical. He did a manual breast exam. He asked if his med student could do it as well. I got felt up by six different people that day, all but one of them women. I figure it makes up for that lesbian experience I was supposed to have in college. He was concerned about a lump he felt on Deirdre (that’s the left boob).

I will never look at Sharpies the same way again. Deidre and Colleen have been sharpied into preschool like works of art. I’m thinking of hiring a painter who works with Sharpies to paint a mural of the Smokie Mountains on my breasts – that way all the doctor has to do is tell someone that he’s worried about Mount LeConte, and it needs to be checked out.

When I asked my doctor about whether or not I would be able to have kids, he didn’t tell me no but mentioned how unlikely it would be. Then he spent a lot of time chatting and bragging on the beautiful children his son and daughter-in-law had adopted from four different countries. It was not a subtle message. He left the room and while I was waiting for the nurse to come and get me for another mammogram, my mom hugged me while I cried. Marcus and I have always wanted to adopt or foster to adopt one of our children, but being told that a biological child would be unlikely be in our future hit me hard. My mom stroked my hair while I cried. I asked her if she would buy me a baby like Angelina Jolie, and we both laughed and blew our noses.

For the next two to three hours, my mom and I waited in terror for the mammogram and ultrasound results for Deidre (she’s my left breast). Thankfully, it’s just fatty tissue. Deidre’s in the clear for now.

While I was waiting for the ultrasound results, I got the news that I was finally in the system for TNCare. Hooray! It’s still going to be a complete hot mess of administrative hell to get them to cover me, but at least they’re pretending they are for now. They had time for an MRI, and I had anxiety meds in purse. You can tell I was a Girl Scout because I’m always prepared! Note: potential muggers in our neighborhood, I actually don’t carry pain or anxiety meds with me on a continual basis.

My mom and I went out to lunch at Tea at the Gallery. The food is wonderful, it’s a calming place to sit and the owners and people who work there are lovely. I stuffed myself with carbs and asked for a pot of the most calming tea they had. Right before I left, I downed enough anxiety meds to down a horse with that delicious tea.

While waiting for the MRI, I began to have a panic attack about the impending IV stick. This always makes me feel so cool. I was given more Xanax and entertained the nurses by how coherent I was, the fact that I could pass a police DUI test while ingesting high levels of anxiety meds (totally could touch my nose with my eyes closed) and how Hugh, the Manatee, would be hanging out in the control room of the MRI. More on Hugh later. My mom pretended not to know me, a skill she’s grown very adept at over the years.

My frenemy, shitfoodblogger, has been toiling over his latest cookbook. I’ve enjoyed taunting him by telling him how much the traffic to my blog has gone up since I’ve gotten cancer. He’s currently trying to get cancer, but he’s so far behind that my cookbook ‘Baking with Boobs’ will get much more attention. Because I like to rub salt in the wound, I told him I would be live tweeting my MRI. That was until my husband reminded me that MRIs involved magnets, so my iPhone would get wiped out.

Thinking quickly, I had my husband fake live tweet it. I think he did a pretty good job:

The IV stick was done with minimal amounts of crying. I was once again amazed by how every piece of equipment at this breast center was like the stuff at other medical centers, just with boob holes. I got ear plugs put in, my earphones put on, and my radio station turned to the 80s channel. Hugh was watching out for me in the control center. It wasn’t bad at all. The tech would warn me when the noise would get loud. I listened to ‘Come On Eileen’ subbing in ‘Colleen’ for every ‘Eileen’. I rolled my eyes when ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’ came on and almost cackled when ‘It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)’ rocked on through my ear phones. I had to remind myself at one point that I probably shouldn’t sing along to ‘Don’t Stop Believing’. I also wish the scan had lasted a little bit longer, because “Bust a Move” had just come on when I was done.

The next day I went to an orientation session for The Cancer Support Community. It’s an amazing place that offers all different kinds of activities for people with cancer and their loved ones. My friend, Beth, teaches classes on cooking and nutrition. There are art classes, support groups, mediation groups – the list goes on and on. I’m so glad we have it in our community, and I am so sad that I ever had to visit it.

My mom could see I was upset, so we did a little recreational shopping. As we walked through TJ Maxx, I looked around for the “Welcome pregnant ladies and women with babies and small children – you get 50% off today” banner. Later on that day I realized my mom had strategically made sure I didn’t walk by the baby clothes, and I burst into tears. Two of my close friends are pregnant. Two have just had babies. I am delighted for them. They’ve already proven themselves to be wonderful moms, or I know they will be a wonderful mom to their first baby. My heart is full of happiness for them, while it weeps for chances lost.

Friday morning, my period app on my phone flashed up the “warning” notification that my green week was coming up. Since my husband and I had decided to start trying to get pregnant this month, it rained tears in our bedroom for a while. Then I called and got the results for my surgery options. I’m a candidate for a partial or full mastectomy which is a nice way of saying that there’s no way I can get a lumpectomy. My body shut right back down to numb. I’ve pretty much stayed there ever since.

I’m so glad my family has moved down to Knoxville. Ironically it made me less worried, and I knew that it would be easier  to help them as they grew older. Now I’m leaning on them like I haven’t had to do in a long time.

Something that I find very uncomfortable about cancer is how narcissistic I feel. When I talk to friends or family members, it’s about doctors appointments or how I’m feeling or what I’m going through or about to go through. I try to keep my friends updated on Facebook and Twitter, but I’m having less and less time to read what’s going on in their lives. I’m writing blog posts that have nothing to do with food, but are solely based around what I’m going through. I’m trying to keep up with comments, but that’s harder to do now as well. I know my friends and family are grateful to be there to support me, but I have a tough time accepting help and the entire focus of our relationship being focused on what I’m dealing with. I’ve had a couple of friends light into me and basically say “Kristina – we love you. Quit being a dumbass. You have cancer. It’s supposed to be all about you right now.” I still hate it.

Tomorrow I have a long consultation with my surgical doctor. I’ll get a better idea of what he thinks exactly should be done. I’m both glad to be getting more information and terrified about that that information might be. Tuesday I’ll be spending most of the day at UT having numerous scans done. There’s absolutely no indication that the cancer has spread to my bones, but I’m scared shitless all the same.

I’ll try to get a recipe post up this week but no promises. I will introduce you to Hugh, the Manatee. As always, I will be obnoxious on twitter. I try to share that obnoxiousness with  random questions added in on my Facebook page. Sometimes I even tweet while under the influence of drugs. I like to think we’re all winners when that happens. Thanks for all the love, prayers, thoughts, vibes and juju sent my way. Colleen and I think you all are awesome.

It’s also difficult to write about this because I am so numb. My wall of denial is built five cement blocks thick. I know that’s a good thing right now. My body is protecting me from being overwhelmed. But I’ve been numb since January. It’s not a fun place to exist.

I had my biopsy done two Thursdays ago. I’m not even going to tell you about the amount of medication it took to put me in a state where I wasn’t going to hyper-ventilate and pass out. My husband & Mom were amazed I was still coherent, but then again my husband goes into a semi-coma if he takes a Benedryl.

The nurse took more mammogram pictures. I think my boob has had more pictures taken of it than Paris Hilton’s commando crotch. Getting this biopsy done was very strange. It’s like a massage table except it’s a lot more uncomfortable, and your boobs go through the hole, and they clamp it down so it can’t move. I had asked earlier and gotten permission to listen to my ipod while this all went down. I hope it delights my friend, Genie, that I now have a biopsy mix. My husband thinks it all kinds of messed up that “Girlfriend in a Coma” by the Smiths is on there, but The Smiths always put me in a good mood.

The first needle hurt a little, but the rest didn’t. At one point I felt pain, so more local anesthetic was used. Thankfully, the horse tranquilizers I took kept my anxiety of having large needles rummaging around in my breast to a manageable level. I have two pretty sizable slits cut into my skin, so I’ve had to keep them well bandaged. For a while I had to make sure to go in for a left sided hug so as not to smash Colleen (this is my boob that has cancer. Deirdre is so far ok). My boob has finally healed to the point where it doesn’t look like a mentally addled vampire bit me. My husband says it now just looks like a kitten gnawed on me for a little bit.

I was told I’d get my results on Friday between 4-5pm. Marcus and I went over to my parents to wait for the news. At one point my mom insisted I take a Xanax. I’m not going to lie to you. In my heart, I already knew it was cancer. I think that after the year my husband and I have had that being all optimistic wasn’t very realistic. I got the call and heard the “Kristina, I’m really sorry to tell you this….” and looked over at Marcus and my Mom and mouthed “I have cancer”. Marcus cried. My mom cried. I was numb. I listened to the information and passed the phone over to my Mom. Then I went into the kitchen and poured myself some bourbon. I did not cry.

My dad had taken my little sister, Ally, out for a drive. Ally’s syndrome tends to make her ask a million questions when she’s anxious. Both my parents understood that I was not ready for a “Sissy – are you going to die?” barrage. My mom called my dad and his initial reply was “God damn it”. Then Ally started in on the questions with him, and he snapped at her because he was so upset and scared. He apologized to Ally and told her that he was just very worried about me. Ally’s reply? “Daddy – me too! I’m worried sick about Sissy”.

They came home. We all hugged. It felt surreal. 23 years ago, Ally was born prematurely and in fetal distress. She was in the neonatal intensive care unit and was very unresponsive. When our jackass of a priest wouldn’t come and baptize her, people from a local church reached out to us and came and prayed around her. I remember the moment like it’s a movie in my head. I was 16 and holding hands in prayer around my sister’s incubator unit. I remember saying in my head “God – you know what? I think you’re full of shit. I think you don’t exist and this is all bullshit. If you actually do, you better do something right the fuck now”. This going to sound so Pat Robertsonish (but without the blaming it on the gays part), but I felt a sense of peace. On Easter Sunday, my little sister stayed awake for two hours, got to put on an adorable dress and interacted with us. I still get tears when I think about it. It’s why I believe when I don’t want to. It’s why I’m willing to wrestle with my faith.

I think it’s pretty fucked up that 23 years later, I found out I had cancer on “Good” Friday.

I have two areas of cancer. One is an actual tumor that has grown outside the duct. It appears to be slow growing. The other area is a large area of precancerous cells that all need to be removed. There’s a lot more specific information that is a haze to me. I glanced through my pathology report, but luckily I have my mom (retired nurse who has had two episodes of breast cancer), Marcus and friends who can explain these things to me when I’m ready to face the facts. I should be in the TNCare state insurance system soon. I’m glad this is the one time that sexism works for me, but I’m furious that people with other kinds of cancer aren’t covered. I’ve got an appointment set up with a surgeon. I’ve got an MRI to schedule along with some other tests. I know what oncologist I’ll be going to.

I really want to cry about this – full-on, snotty ugly crying. I can’t. I can only get teary and choked up. This has only happened a few times. First when I realized that Mira, my comfort cat, wouldn’t be here to snuggle with me and help me through this. I cried again on April Fools Day because that was the day when Marcus and I were going to start trying to have a baby. This mammogram was supposed to be a check-mark on a checklist. I get a bit weepy in church. And I’m crying right now because I’m thinking about April.

I’m going to give you some tips about what not to do to someone who’s been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease. A lot of these things can be examples of things not to say to people who have just lost a loved one.

Please don’t tell me I’m lucky because my cancer is in an early stage or because right now it’s not anticipated that I’ll have to go through chemotherapy. I do not feel blessed or grateful for that. I’m relieved, but there is never anything lucky about cancer scares or cancer.

Please don’t tell me how cancer is going to make me stronger, or make me learn so much about myself or will end up being the best thing that ever happened to me. I will stare at you, say “Bless your heart” and walk away. Other women who have had cancer will overhear you saying this and come up to me and say “Please just ignore that bullshit”. And if I’m feeling really bitchy, I might just throw out a “Cancer – it’s just the gift that keeps on giving”.

Please don’t assume that my cancerland experience or feelings about it are the same as yours. If you got through it with your faith never wavering, good for you. If you sustained yourself through the experience by imagining yourself as a cancer ass-kicking machine and that worked for you, I’m really glad it brought you comfort. If pink ribbons made you feel better, rock on. I want to make it CRYSTAL CLEAR that how you got through it is what you needed to do, and I’m so glad it helped. It’s just probably not going to be my way I deal with it.

Here’s how I feel: right now, I’m not interested in being a warrior against cancer. I’m not interested in being inspirational with my positive attitude. I’m not interested in kicking cancer’s ass. I’m not interested in being a survivor or fighting my cancer. This bothers me because it implies that the people who didn’t make it didn’t fight hard enough. Our friend, April, fought it to the end. She was brave and courageous and fought it. She didn’t die because she didn’t fight hard enough. She died because cancer is a heartless, ruthless bastard.

Quote from a post I wrote about her:
In this country, we love our David and Goliath stories. We love to hear about people overcoming all odds, fighting through every obstacle in their path. But sometimes we need to be reminded that no matter how hard we try or how hard we fight, we can’t win. We don’t always get our fairy tale endings – no matter how much we want them. We want to hear the Chicken Soup for the Soul version of cancer, and we tend to forget that life is rarely that black or white. No one fought harder than April and her family, and no one deserved a happy ending more than them. This is a real story with an ending that no one wanted, but it’s the ending that we got.

Another tip, please don’t insinuate that I don’t know how to eat healthy or live a healthy life. I’ve been eating organic from our family garden since I was born. I belong to a CSA that is organic, and I bet I eat a shit ton more vegetables than you do. I do yoga on a regular basis. Up until recently, I’ve been what I call a cynical optimist. I will blow sunshine up your ass, but I’m completely willing to make fun of it while I’m in the process. I don’t think my diet, my amount of exercise, my lack of optimism caused my cancer. I want to make it clear that I realize that many of you who have said these things meant them with the best of intentions. Thank you for caring. I also understand that it makes you feel safer – that if you follow the rules, it won’t happen to you. But it’s not helpful to me. I found out from a friend about a man who runs and is a vegan. He’s suffering from stomach cancer. Granted – there are things you can do to reduce your risk of cancer. But you know what? You still might get cancer. It’s an asshole.

I also am not interested in anecdotal stories about the way a friend of a friend was cured of cancer. I’m thrilled that your friend cured her cancer when she sacrificed a woodchuck under the solstice moon while burning sage and dancing naked around a drum circle. I’m glad your sister’s hairstylist’s niece cured her cancer because she went on a macrobiotic diet and took up sky-diving. I’m going to make my medical and scientific friends happy with this statement: Correlation is not causation. If something helped you, and you can tell me about it in a non-judgmental manner, let me know. But also know that I may not take your advice.

You know how I’m going to get through this? Here’s how: Long hugs from friends. My loved ones telling me they love me. Knowing that people of many different faiths and creeds are praying, sending me good juju or lighting candles for me. Thank you. Colleen says thank you too. I’m going to get through this by swallowing my pride and letting people help me. I’m really awful at this, but I’m going to really try hard to knock it off. I’m going to get through this because of the people who give me hugs and say things like “I am so sorry. This sucks”. I’m going to get through this because I have friends who are honest enough to tell me that they don’t know what to say. I’m going to get through this because my mom and dad love me so much that it makes me cry. I’m going to get through this because I’m married to a man who will do everything he can to help me and support me. I’m going to get through this with my cancer fighting manatee. Flowers from the best friends that a girl could ask for. I’m going to get through this because there are two options, I do or I don’t. I do.

To my credit, I do plan to bring a lot of offensive jokes to the table. I’m already telling Marcus I can’t do things around the house because I have cancer. I like to think that my tasteless jokes will be my contribution to fighting cancer. I want to make cancer feel very insecure and bullied. I want to hurt cancer’s feelings. Every time I say the word twatwaffle, I want cancer to feel like it can’t sit at the cool kid’s table.

And because I want to make sure to offend as many people as possible before I’m too depressed or exhausted to give it my all, here you go:

• I’m a hipster Komen loather. I loathed Komen before loathing Komen was cool.
• If I wear pink, it will only be fuschia & it has nothing to do with my boobs. I just look FABULOUS in that color.
• I want nothing to do with a save the Ta-Tas or Save the boobies campaign. I’m more of a save the whole woman, not just her tits kind of person.

Thank you all for the prayers, the love, the encouragement. It’s meant so much to me. You guys are an amazing blend of snark, compassion, and love. I couldn’t ask for better blog commenters.

Today, I got a card from a woman from the church we just joined. I love this church. As I read this card, I got weepy. Then, I got to the end. It said “Fight like a Girl”. You know what? I’m going to get through this. It will suck, but I’ll press on. And when times get tough? I’ll fight like a girl.

To end this post – I will say that I got a lump in my throat when I made ‘cancer’ a category on my blog. I want people to easily find these posts in the hope that whatever ramblings I’ve posted might help them or at least make them smile. But I hated adding it.

Note: All of these pictures have been taken with an iPhone  This week has been stressful enough that I was not about to even attempt Lightroom or futzing with my camera.

This is my boob:

These are my boobs with possible cancerous nodules on them:

The above shape of my boob was drawn at my request by a young child who I will not identify, so none of you who take yourself too seriously will call CPS on his/her parents. The picture was also not drawn to scale or in any realistic way at all. And I put in the weird areas. Even I’m not twisted enough to have a kid do that.

Last week, I alluded in my post that I was dealing with a scary medical issue. On Thursday afternoon, I will be having a mammographic stereotactic biopsy. This whole process does not seem real. This was supposed to be a a checkbox on a list of things I needed to do (pap smear, vaccines, dealing with other health issues) to be healthy and live a healthy life.

On the 14th, I went in for a screening mammogram. Since I have a family history of breast cancer, a base line mammogram is a good idea. As I get older, these x-rays will be something that will be used to compare later mammograms to.

I come home and work on stuff around the house. Little flutters of anxiety flit in and out of my head. It was like that when I waited for a pap smear test to come back. Around 3:30, I get a call. A very calming, reassuring voice tells me over and over that there’s no reason to be scared, but I need to come back in for a follow-up mammogram and ultrasound.

 It’s not until later that evening that a scene clicks into my head. I can see it in my mind like I’m watching a movie. Earlier that day, this beautiful Indian woman and I were brought back to the dressing rooms and given our little tie front robes. I was directed to the waiting room on the right. She was directed to the waiting room on the left. My sign said “screening”. Hers said “diagnostic”. I burst into tears so heavy that I make my t shirt damp. I wish I could have gone back in time and hugged her. She flits in and out of my mind every damn day, and every time I think about her, I ask God to help her, to get her through this, to help her family get through this.

I sat in the diagnostic waiting room with my mom when I went back for a follow up mammogram. My first series of mammograms was fine. I mean, it’s not a breast handling technique I want my husband to learn, but it was more uncomfortable than painful. The very last x-ray done makes me dizzy with the pain. It’s like my boob was a zit that they were trying to pop. These mammograms still show suspicious issues, so an ultrasound is done. There is nothing like having your boobs lubed up and pressed firmly with something that feels like a giant computer mouse for a good time. The food scene from 9 1/2 weeks flashes through my head, and I remember that I was never very turned on by the honey scene even when I was 23 and stupid. I still think of how many ants that would attract and what a mess it would be to clean up. After that, a very nice doctor tells me that I have two areas of concern on my right breast. One is merely suspicious. The other is very suspicious, and I’ll need to have a biopsy where actual tissue is removed using a special tool that will collect larger fragments of tissue and uses a vacuum. In my head, I imagine one of the prize toy claws with a Dyson attached to it.

 After this visit, I go home and curl up on my bed for a few hours. I make myself get up, put on a black dress and go to the funeral of my friend’s 46 year old sister who died from complications from Type 1 diabetes. This was a woman who did everything she was supposed to do to manage her diabetes. This was a woman who was deeply loved by her entire family, but especially her brother. I hear a sermon telling everyone not to be sad, that this woman is in a better place. I feel my husband grow rigid beside me because this is the kind of thing that broke his faith for a while – this “be happy” approach without much regard to the grief and the sadness that all of those who loved her will be going through. Yes – they’re all relieved she’s not in pain anymore. But they’re really going to miss her.

I spend the next few days trying to make it through with black humor. I horrify my mom by telling her that I’ve never been felt up by so many different people since my junior year in high school. I tell Marcus that he has to scoop the litter boxes because he should feel guilty that I might have cancer. I find out I might have a titanium marker left in my boob, and I ask my husband if this makes me part Gobot. Someone leaves a bitchy comment on the Facebook page for this blog, and I totally want to reply “Man – you are going to look like such an asshole when you see my post on Tuesday.”

And then I burst into tears and scare the cats.

I worry about my Mom. No one who had to endure the hell she went through with her two battles with cancer should ever have to worry about their daughter going through this. I worry about my dad. He keeps his emotions locked in very tight, but when my mom tells me he stayed up until 11:30 cleaning the night we found out I needed a biopsy, I know he’s trying to wrestle whatever control or solution or approach he can over this situation. Everyone hugs me more and holds me longer.

I worry about my husband. Helpful support from his family is pretty much a pipe dream. He has my family and his friends to lean on, but he’s also been beaten down by life in the last couple of years. He is terrified of losing me. He wants to fix this, to make it better, and he can’t.

I worry about me. The thought of have successive needles stuck into me, so they can vacuum actual tissue out has caused two actual panic attack and brought me to the verge of others several times. Despite a phobia of needles that set in when I was 13, I have gotten much better through the years and have dealt with the last few blood sticks like a boss. I was doing so well. I got a flu shot a few weeks ago and didn’t flinch. The nurse gave me a hug, a sticker and a lollipop. I got a cortisone shot in my back two weeks ago, and while I was nervous, I got through it fine with only one reminder from my mom “Those are really good deep breaths you’re taking. Try taking them slower.” Now I feel terrified and ashamed that this irrational feel has taken control over me again. I made an appointment with a doctor for guidance on how to deal with this on Thursday. Easy answer – I will be gorked out of my mind on Thursday. Marcus is hiding my iPhone so there’s less of a chance I will “drunk” tweet. Sometimes he’s quite the killjoy.

Some quick tips if you have a friend that gets an abnormal mammogram or has to have more extensive testing done. Don’t tell them not to worry, or that they’ll be fine; that lots of other women have had this done and it’s nothing. Seriously - don’t do that, especially if you’ve never had this happen to you. Internet statistics are not what your friend needs. Your friend is scared. Let her be scared. Hug her. Let her cry. Let her rant. By insisting that everything is going to be OK, you minimize her fears and experiences, and you have no right to do that. After they’ve cried and freaked out a bit, then it’s OK to remind them that it is very likely the outcome will be OK, but that you also understand why they’re so scared.

Another tip – you have no idea what a person going through this brings as baggage on this shitty, shitty roller coaster ride. You may have had an abnormal mammogram and a needle biopsy and yours turned out just fine. That’s truly wonderful for you. But for other women it stirs up so much emotion that they feel swept up in a tidal wave of fear and déjà vu. Maybe their mom wasn’t at their wedding day because she died from breast cancer. Maybe they watched a friend fight and fight and fight and eventually had to watch her succumb to the disease. Maybe they’ve had to watch their sister go through chemotherapy and have seen how awful the process was for her.

I have a mom who made it through two occurrences of cancer. The first one almost killed her. The second one was no walk in the park. And the phrase “Hopefully, the chemo kills the cancer faster than you” comes to mind. She has nerve damage and when it’s not causing her pain, she experiences times where she can’t really feel her feet and hands. She’s fallen down and knocked herself out. She’s broken her ankle. Every time I’m with her I make sure to follow her up the stairs and go first down the stairs. I know it annoys her, but I will never not do it.

A friend who was diagnosed with cancer in her early 30s was with us when Marcus and I got engaged. I remember her having to keep her intravenous port above water in the hot tub at the cabin. She read our favorite passage at our wedding. I see pictures from our wedding with her in them, and I cry. She fought cancer. She fought it hard.  Cancer won. A couple of weeks ago, my husband got all choked up and said “I really miss April. The world is worse off without her here”.

And then I sit here and think about the state of healthcare in this country, and I am filled with rage. I rarely bring politics onto my blog, but there is something indecent, immoral and un-Christian about a country that lets people die because they don’t have health care. Those of us without healthcare? Very few of us are the lazy bums some people like to think we are.  Some of us have tried for years to buy insurance. Some of us have been told that it’s obvious that after seven different agents and applying for the same companies over and over again because our papers keep getting “lost”  - that we’re being illegally discriminated against, probably because of familial history. There’s no point in suing because we don’t have the money or teams of lawyers that insurance companies do. Some of us are uninsurable. Some of us don’t have the money to pay for insurance coverage because of the cost, while the insurance companies’ CEOs are being rewarded with millions in salary and millions in bonuses. Please don’t bother arguing with me about this in the comments. You’re entitled to your point of view. I have lived through this, and you will not bring me around to your way of thinking because of a comment left on my blog.

Sure – there are some programs for those who can’t get insurance. Good luck navigating your way through them. It’s taken us two years to be able to get affordable general health care. It’s taken eight cancelled visits to try to access a state program that is supposed to help women with cervical, ovarian & breast healthcare. It took so much time that my mom told me to just go ahead and schedule a mammogram, and she would pay for it. I’m glad I didn’t wait to get the mammogram done through this state program. A very kind woman at the center where I got my mammogram done cuts through the red tape. I have to sit in an office and be told “Now I don’t want to offend you, but God is there with us through every step of the way, and you need to remember everything is a part of God’s plan”. I am Christian. If I had not been, her words would not have brought me to Christ. This woman works in a government office and holds a lot of power over what kind of cancer screening I’ll have access to. I find the fact that she had decided to talk about God with me, when she had no idea what religion I may or may not have been, abhorrent. On the way out, this same woman tells me to look for the silver lining in this black cloud. I’m lucky that if I have breast cancer, I’ll be able to get on TennCare. Other cancers are not covered, and you’re shit out of luck if you have them and don’t have insurance. After subduing the strong urge to punch her in the throat and tell her that I was glad Allah was there to guide me through this journey, I quickly thanked her and left. 

Right now I want to take my boobs off, put them in a box for safe keeping and take them out for special occasions, like our wedding anniversary or Marcus’ birthday. It would be even better if I could send them out for repair and maintenance.

I chatted with a friend last night. After she pretended to be aghast with me when I said I just wanted to have a normal, boring life, she put it into perfect perspective. I want to be beige. I want to have a beige life for a while. I’ll still wear fuchsia because I look horrible in beige, but a beige life sounds wonderful right now.

I realize that the outcome from this biopsy has a very good chance of being a good one. But I am 39 years old. I should not be going through this. No one should be going through this. Fuck Cancer.

My pimp hat seemed appropriate for this picture.

I have wonderful friends and a wonderful family that have been hard at work keeping me busy and diverting my attention away from Thursday. One of my friends who I have given the alias, SchmArin, brainstormed with me on ways we could make boobs out of food. Cupcakes seemed way overdone and not much of a challenge. Plus a 3 year old frosts cupcakes better than me. I also thought about rice krispy treat boobs, but they seemed to be too lumpy for my comfort. He’s been cooking his way through the pudding section of the The Essential New York Times Cookbook, so we pondered pudding options. He thought blancmange (A sweet dessert commonly made with milk and/or cream and sugar thickened with gelatin) would work best. He had breast shaped bowls, so I planned to go over to his place to make this magic happen. Raspberries seemed like our best bet for nipples.

First, I ran to the closest grocery story and our local food co-op. Neither place had raspberries. I called SchmArin and asked him “Would strawberries work as nipples if we just used the tip?” He told me that was the strangest question he had ever been asked. I told him I was sure it wasn’t the strangest question I had ever asked, but it was up there on the list. We decided to make our blancmange first and then worry about nipples later.  SchmArin went off on a weird tangent about doing some kind of raspberry center or drizzle. After a few minutes I was able to convey that while I wanted these puddings to look like my boobs, I wanted them intact and not portrayed as they would be during the biopsy. I have very little shame, but that seemed too much even for me.

Please forgive me for flipping the video the wrong way. I’ve been a little nervous.

We followed the recipe from the cookbook pretty closely. We decided to flavor the blancmange with a little bit of raspberry jelly. I’m pretty pale but not vampire pale. We thought the jelly would be nice with the lemon and would warm up the color a little. We had a very scary grey stage at one point, but the addition of a tiny bit more jelly got us back into flesh colored territory very quickly. We poured them into the bowls. We wanted to make them a little fuller, so we had enough blancmange for 5 1/2 bowls. We threw the boobs into the fridge and went out in search of nipples.

After perusing many fruit options, raspberries still seemed like best idea. I tell you, there’s nothing that makes me feel more like a locavore than buying fresh raspberries in March in East Tennessee.

On Sunday, we unmolded the first halfway filled bowl (stick the bowl gently in hot water until it unsticks a bit from the sides) and plopped it out on a plate. Marcus, SchmArin and I dug in. We all agreed; my boobs were pretty damn tasty. They were a little too see through around the top area. If we ever make boob pudding again, we’ll use more cream for part of the milk (and I made the adjustment in the recipe posted here). For some reason, SchmArin decided to toast some almond bits and add them to the top of the boobs. I think this makes my boobs look dusty, but it made SchmArin happy, so I went with it.

This is the way I cope. The more I can laugh at a problem and the more that I can mock it in a ridiculous fashion, the better I feel about the whole thing. Thankfully, I have a husband, family and friends who indulge me when times get tough. No matter how everything works out, that is one thing that I will always be grateful for.

This is my husband. You should feel sorry for him because this is one of the least embarrassing things I’ve made him do.

New Jersey BlancMange
Serves 6
Adapted from The Essential New York Times Cookbook

3 cups whole milk with a layer of cream or use half milk & half cream
5 tablespoons sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons gelatin
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Grated zest of 1 lemon
5 teaspoons raspberry jelly
3/4 teaspoon almond extract
Optional – toasted almond crumbs and/or fresh raspberries

In a medium saucepan, combine the milk (or half milk, half cream), sugar, gelatin, salt, zest and raspberry jelly. Bring this slowly to a boil, Making sure to whisk so that the sugar and gelatin dissolve. If your jelly seems clumpy, use the whisk to push down on the clump. When bubbles form on the milk, remove from the heat. Strain through a fine seive (the one we used wasn’t fine enough). Stir in the almond extract.

Pour the liquid into six 1/2 to 3/4 cup bowls or ramekins. Chill until firm – that took about 3 hours for us. Dip the bowls in warm water to loosen and unmold onto plates.