I mean, like, non OBSESSIVELY, but more time that I would if my mom hadn’t died of breast cancer and her sister (my aunt) hadn’t had it too and her other sister (my other aunt) hadn’t had ovarian cancer, and her mom (my gramma) hadn’t had uterine cancer, and her grandmother (my great-gramma) hadn’t died of ovarian cancer.
Soooo, on occasion I worry that my lady bits are trying kill me.
On the one hand, I have used this in a healthy way to stay on top of my yearly lady torture and I’ve had genetic counselling done at the University of Washington. I am on file there in case new genetic links are discovered but for now there is nothing terrifying in my DNA (according to current knowledge, I have a 15-30% higher chance of getting breast cancer that your average chick of my demographic but that isn’t terrifying, it is just vaguely discomforting). I also dropped 50 pounds and have been cutting most of the sugar and processed crap out of my diet. I quit using antiperspirant too… mostly, opting instead for natural mineral and baking soda formulas because there is some research that makes something more than tenuous connections there. I check my breasts for lumps regularly and make a point to try and pay attention to all those things they tell us to be mindful about. So that is the upside.
On the other hand, on occasion I find myself, particularly after reading about someone else’s ordeal with breast cancer,or dealing with the loss of someone from it, or when I hear about the Komen 3 Day, or when I hear about someone, like Angelina Jolie, taking preventative measures, on those occasions I catch myself sometimes feeling a bit like maybe my tits are out to get me and I should do them in before they get a chance to do me first.
Now, my kids both breastfed, so the girls have served their official function, and although they’ve never been record holders they do a fine job of holding up sweaters and whatnot, so it’s not that I find them aesthetically bothersome, they are cute enough, I guess. I just don’t like the whole “secretly plotting your eventual demise” vibe that I get on occasion.
This is not a conversation I can have with Honey Badger; it weirds him out, which I can understand, if he wanted to talk about prostate cancer and his chances of getting it I would want to be re-assuring and then I would want to change the subject to sunshine and lollipops, and cute, fluffy bunnies and topics that are not touching on deeply unhappy things like possible causes for a great deal of pain and perhaps even the eventual death of my spouse.
So in lieu of discussing the subject of my potential breast cancer, potential preventative steps I might someday deem necessary, or the possibility of my tits eventually murdering me with people who get uncomfortable with that subject matter… I am posting it online for the whole world to ignore.
I know feeling a lot of this is normal, and I know that lots of people have these concerns and other similar to them, and I know I am probably going to be fine, and I GET all that, but sometimes a gal just wants to give voice to these concerns in a forum where it can just be ok to say it and have it acknowledged without anyone feeling the need to minimize, or poo-poo, or reassure. I don’t NEED reassurance or minimizing most of the time…
it is what it is, and I live with it, and I try to be smart, and I don’t need sympathy or bullshit, or sunshine blown up my…anything.
So is there a point to this? I don’t know, I guess “beware the boobs, they are deadly little biotches sometimes, but they still need love, so don’t skip your monthly self-exam.”