Oh Mammy, Part 2

As with the previous post about my mammogram, if you don't want to know, don't read on.  

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A few weeks after my initial mammogram, I received a letter from the doctor’s office that there were some findings of potential concern.  The letter claimed that I had signs of “increased breast density” and needed to schedule both another mammogram and an ultrasound to verify their findings.  The original mammo tech had warned me that this could happen as there was no previous mammogram to treat as a baseline for “normal”.  What she didn’t warn me about was that the letter (only five paragraphs in length) would also go on to state that women with dense breast tissue had a higher chance of getting breast cancer.  The remaining four paragraphs of the letter were then all about breast cancer.  I also received a phone call from my OB-GYN telling me that any results from the second mammogram would be sent to a breast cancer specialist. Way to freak out the semi-hypochondriac!

Let’s be honest here, cancer is one of those things that has always scared the hell out of me.  I wasn’t raised with the knowledge that cancer ran in my family, but in talking to my mother about the second appointment, I discovered that several female relatives have in fact had (or are in the throes of) cancer.  No one seems to have had breast cancer, but there have been other types.  Well, shit. 

When I went to the doctor for my second appointment, they decided that only an ultrasound was necessary.  The radiology tech (a sort of brusque, no-nonsense blond named Wendy) slathered the heated gel on my breast and began the exam.  A few minutes into it, she muttered, “Ah, there it is!”  She proceeded to rapidly press various keys on the keyboard, all the while moving the ultrasound wand into different positions for better views of whatever she had just seen.  What the f*ck?  I tried not to panic.

It turned out that I apparently have a 1.5 cm growth under my nipple. The doctor did not seem to think it was of immediate concern, so he offered me the choice between a “wait and see” approach or a needle biopsy.  I told him there was no way I was going to wait and see (semi-hypochondriac, remember?).  I’d rather know.  He did caution me that because of the position of the growth, it could be a) painful and b) difficult to get to with a biopsy needle.  I may still have to get a follow up surgery to remove the growth if the biopsy is inconclusive or impossible.  I made a joke equating the biopsy to being like a nipple piercing without the jewelry.  Laugh or you cry, right? 

Sometimes the hardest part is just the waiting…Waiting to make the biopsy appointment…waiting for the results….waiting to know.  I am not necessarily, as you may already be aware, a patient person. I try to be positive, and to hope for the best, but I am a worrier.  I am often plagued by all manner of thoughts from the practical to the inane:  “What will happen to my daughter if I get sick?” or “I guess we’ll see how good my insurance is!” and  “But I really like my breasts!”

But then, it could just be nothing.  The doctor seemed to think it was nothing.  Perhaps it really is nothing.  Oh man, I hope it’s nothing. 

Sigh.  Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Teacher Teacher

There are many lessons to be learned in life.  Some we learn in school, some are learned through our experiences.  Some lessons are readily apparent…and some are silent ninjas that whap one upside the head in a sudden moment of clarity.

And then there are the lessons that as they are being learned leave one with a sense of (and there is no real nice way to say this) what the F*CK?!

It is this last type of lesson that plagues me most often.  In the midst of attempting to draw enlightenment and personal awareness from my individual experiences, I find that I am often more confused by them.  Even as I am asking myself, “What am I to learn from this?” I admit I don’t always know the answer.  Sometimes I never do.  Not unlike Neo in The Matrix, I guess, I must realize there is no spoon.

If you don’t understand my rather dated reference to the 1999 film, let me further explain that all this stems from a relatively recent understanding:  I have a habit of attracting (and usually falling for) unavailable men. This, of course, is not something for which I ever plan.

As I further attempt to feed my romantic soul, I find myself taking more High Fidelity-style trips through my past relationships than should be allowed (Yes, another dated pop culture reference.  Damn, I am old.  Ha.).  It is on these trips that I better comprehend the validity of my previous statement.  Whether emotionally or physically, I do indeed attract unavailable men.

It all began with my first love.  Although I’d had other boyfriends in high school, there was one for whom I fell hard.  A bit of an odd pie with somewhat of a Peter Pan complex, I adored him.  He was sarcastic and funny with a penchant for Oingo Boingo.  I told him I loved him.  He said “Oh”…and then disappeared.  The next thing I knew he was dating one of my best friends.  Well, what did I expect?  We were sixteen. 

Interestingly, he is one of the rare few with whom I still remain friends—although, to be fair, this is partially because of his persistence in the years after high school and because he is now married to an amazing woman (who actually is the one with whom I communicate more often).  We have no need to be anything more than just friends again.  

Then there was the one to whom I refer to as “Cherry Popper”.  Oh my, but he was a beautiful boy.  Recently out of a long relationship, he wasn’t looking for another.  Of course, I was absolutely smitten with him—as were most people who knew him.

I think I always sensed that he would only be in my life for a short time…I didn’t even delude myself into thinking that we were dating (although in a conversation I had with him years later, he surprisingly referred to it as such).  He introduced me to a different side of myself and then was gone so quickly that even now, I still occasionally wonder if we don’t have “unfinished business”.  This is most certainly wishful thinking.  He too is married now. 

I have opened myself up to many unavailable men in the subsequent years after Cherry Popper:  the one nicknamed “Guillermo” who eventually thought me “exhausting”; the former fiancé who just couldn’t choose to be with me until I finally decided to leave him; the sexy blue-eyed devil I had liked for years, rebound dated and then got dumped by when he met—and married—a girl with my first name one month into our relationship; my ex-husband who stopped communicating with, respecting and allegedly loving me well before I realized it; the long-ago friend who found me on Facebook, chatted me up and then, when it was about to get “real”, became angered by something of which I am still not aware and completely withdrew; the friend (and former crush) whom I counseled through a supposed rough patch in his marriage then discovered he was really buying a house and having a baby with her; the recovering meth addict who still had to work on getting his own sh*t together; the one who interrupted my two-year re-virgination project with ideas of possibility even though he wasn’t really mine to have….

I have cried a lot of tears in my 25ish years of relationships.  While it is likely I too have left a trail of broken hearts in my wake (due to my own inability to share my heart with those poor souls), I still wonder why I keep getting introduced to and involved with men who are perhaps not ready for a relationship with me?  What am I putting out into the Universe that attracts these men to me?  Am I still not ready for lasting love myself, choosing subconsciously to avoid any intimacy that is not solely physical?  Am I just plagued with really shitty timing?  Or an unflapping “take what you can and make it work” attitude?  Am I, as in The Matrix, not realizing that it is not the spoon that bends, only myself (whatever the hell that means)? 

The other day, my friend sent me a picture of a printed T-shirt.  The shirt slogan read, “My life is a romantic comedy minus the romance and just me laughing at my own jokes.”  This is funny to me because it rings true, but it also makes be a bit wistful. Underneath all of my bravado, bluster and so-called “slut sparkle” (so named because people often assume I am wilder than I feel I really am), I want what I imagine a lot of people want:  a companion.  I want a partner in crime, in life, and yes, in the sheets—someone with whom to share my life for more than just a “certain period of time”.  There comes a time, after all, when singlehood becomes hermitude and, while I like my solace, I realize I am not built for such things. I do want the meet cute, the love affair, the lasting romance, “the One”…Damn you, Hollywood.

Therefore, the search continues.  To be honest, though, after 11ish (collective) years of dating, 11 years of marriage, 3 years of divorce, I don’t even know where to look anymore.  I don’t even know if I should look—or to just let it “happen”?  But then how does it happen? 

I am not jaded about love (or even marriage), yet I sure am disheartened by my past choices in men.  Not necessarily because of who they were as people, but because I would like to stop feeling like Good Luck Chuck (another movie reference for you) and dating people who are meant for someone else.

And so, Universe, I have to ask you to please stop sending me the unavailable men.  I am fully aware of the value of casual encounters, yet if the men are already married or attached and/or not capable of or open to a more lasting relationship with me, I know they are not for me.  Please help me then to make the best choices when it comes to relationships and to recognize the men of action and purpose, not just words. Grant me the opportunity to appreciate the man who is capable of prioritizing my role in his life and allow me to (and want to) prioritize his role in mine as well.  Assist me in knowing who will provide a positive, supportive and loving influence and recognize my worth, therefore preventing me from losing myself in a relationship that is detrimental to my wellbeing.  Please quell the drama that occasionally accompanies relationships, while still allowing me to be thrilled, excited, enticed and enthralled.

Oh, and if you want to make him British, Irish or Scottish, I cannot say I would mind.  ;)

AAAAAAAHHHH-MEN!

See, I am learning. 

Until my next blog entry, Lovelies….