Hi! How was your January? You know, that pleasantly boring month with nothing going on, so you can catch a breath after all the holidays?
Yeah, not so much. In late December, I FINALLY took a blood test to determine whether I have a gene mutation common among Ashkenazi Jews that predisposes us to ovarian and breast cancers, among other fun things. So, in January (calm, relaxing, boring January), I learned that I do indeed possess one of the magic mutations. I'm a winner! Come on down, Suburban Correspondent, it's your turn to play Genetic Roulette!
So the rest of the month was filled with discussions and medical appointments and decisions (decisions which weren't very hard to make, honestly), and frankly, I've seen more anatomical pictures and drawings and explanations than I ever wanted to. I'm really not a biological sciences gal, you know. I preferred physics, nothing to get squeamish about there.
Well! This is an unexpectedly unpleasant topic, isn't it? Let's look at some handknitted socks (I've done 3 pairs this month, because when there are medical decisions to make, I turn to yarn as a calming agent.)
|You can't tell, but these are sparkly|
Where was I? Oh, yes, so essentially, my body is holding a Fire Sale, in that Everything Must Go! Ovaries? Don't need 'em! Tubes? Ditto! Uterus? Oh, what the heck, while we're in there...
And, yeah, the boobs, of course, those too.
Oh, sure, we could watch and wait, but the medical consensus is YOU DON'T WANT TO. Which is fine by me, only I've never had surgery before. Ever. Remember that moment at the train station in October, where Larry and I had to decide to drive all night so we wouldn't miss the wedding, and everyone was all, "SURE! I LOVE this plan!"
That's me, right now, saying yes to two surgeries, one of which will produce visible results that I'm not sure squeamish me can handle. THAT will be interesting.
But, hey, this experience should be merely miserable and not horrible, to quote Alvie Singer in Annie Hall. Horrible would be having to change the tag line for this blog to "Kids! Vomit! Mice! Now With Chemo!" or - quite frankly - learning I have a good chance of dying before I even see any grandkids, since ovarian cancer is symptomless until too late. Barring the small chance the doctor discovers cancer when he removes the ovaries and tubes (yup, that thought does keep me up at night, thanks for asking), I consider myself to be pretty darn lucky.
Here, more socks:
|knit while I watched a lecture series on the history of Ukraine|
And, dear readers, if all goes well, I will become the proud owner of a set of NEW BOOBS, in a normal size for a change, and I will no longer have to spend $65 apiece for the engineering marvels that are my current bras and - OMG - I'll be able to wear pretty ones instead, with patterns and colors and I do not know what all. Also? I'll be able to buy shirts and dresses that fit me, instead of buying them one size too large to fit around my currently capacious bosom.
So I'm keeping my eyes on that prize - new boobs for my 60th birthday, with a wardrobe to go with it.
Yeah, all my kids have to get tested now. I feel strangely, terribly guilty about that. Let's look at the latest pair of socks, these are my favorite:
|Not quite done, but I knit almost 3 pairs in as many weeks, stress will do that|
You know, I never did get to meet my paternal grandmother, the one who died of ovarian cancer the year I was born and who unwittingly passed down this strange family gift. It was one of those weird eureka moments for me, getting those test results - they made me realize that, whoa, genetics really ARE a thing and she really WAS my grandmother.
I'm slow, what can I say?
I have more to write, about work and such (apparently, there is no limit to how many job applications of mine can be rejected), but I have to go to sleep right now, because tomorrow is my early morning shift at The Container Store. Before I go, though, a few ground rules for the comment section:
1. Anyone who uses the word "brave" will be banned (as soon as I figure out how to do that). Not brave, I just specialize in gallows humor
2. Please refrain from going into detail about the difficult recovery of someone you know who has had the same surgery. I need to pretend this will be simple. (And, yes, I have already experienced hearing stories like this IRL, SMH)
3. My hypochondriac self is convinced it is too late and I am already dying. DO NOT say anything to exacerbate that tendency, thanks! Larry doesn't need me to be any crazier than I am right now.
Ugh, this post is sort of a downer, I'm sorry! Couldn't think of enough jokes, and I'm in a rush. But stick around, I'm sure the next 4 months will be an absolute laugh riot...