Saving 2nd Base

Some observations from this morning’s trip to radiology:

1. Lady, the sign clearly states TAKE YOUR PERSONAL ITEMS WITH YOU.  Yes, that means, you.  No, you should not leave them in the changing room.  No you don’t need to repeatedly ask the tech.  You just need to read the SIGNS (or even listen when the tech told you to take them with you in the first place).
2. The robe closes in the BACK (same lady).  There was a sign for that, too BTW.
3. Wondering if there is rampant fraud in the area of mammos?  Had to show my photo ID to check in, then they hospital tagged me, then the tech confirmed by identity both verbally AND off the tag before removing the tag for the file.  I don’t think I’ve gone through that many steps for… anything!  Mammos should be free and available for all – but that’s a universal healthcare rant for another day.
4. Forgot about the appointment until iWatch reminded me.  Therefore, forgot to not deodorize.  Damn it.
5. I didn’t get a sticker.  I feel slightly cheated. (My participation-trophy-generation is showing.)

Seriously though, don’t put them off, people.  Four photos, 20 minutes.  I’d say “no sweat” but… see #4.

My mom had 2 fake boobs

Breast cancer took my mom. Not directly. Not immediately. But 30 years later the lingering effects lead to her death.

I don’t remember clearly her fight with breast cancer. I couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9. It wasn’t something the family discussed. The “C Word” was whispered (literally they said “the C Word”) and it wasn’t until I was much older that I understood why I got to spend weeks with my aunt and uncle or why we spent so many afternoons in the waiting room at City of Hope.

It was the late 70s.  Like so many other things, it just wasn’t something we ever talked about.

The surgeries left her with a flat, scarred chest. The chemo replaced her greying wavy hair with straight brown locks. She wasn’t happy with either. She wore a wig, then took to having her hair “frosted” grey and permed. She got fake boobs.

It was the late 70s. They were silicone. They leaked.  Years later she had them taken out but the combination of removed lymph nodes and the damage caused by the implants left her with no immune system to fight off the infection that eventually took her.

I’ve watched too many around me deal with this. Breast cancer runs in my family. My mother wasn’t the first; she wasn’t the last either.  I’ve had my own scare. We all have our stories. Stories of faith, and hope, and too often loss.

40 years later, I still remember that City of Hope lobby.  I’m about the same age as she was. It’s why I go for annual mammograms. It’s why I get nervous when I feel anything new. Why I TRIED to stay strong when Juli had to go for a biopsy that thankfully was negative. Like my mother’s chest, her breast cancer left me scarred.

This is MY breast cancer awareness month story. Someday, maybe we won’t have these stories to share. Hopefully.