since you asked

For the moment, I am wallowing in my diagnosis. Consider a car bomb in the middle of a family picnic. I’m there, but I am also looking on. Very much an out-of-body experience. Do I salvage the tuna salad, or collect my family and huddle beneath the largest tree I can find and under a down comforter?

Am I upset over the possibility of losing a breast? Not really. Though I reserve the right to change my mind the day after. I’ve had a terrific pair for 48 years and am willing to fly solo or add a cup of silicone down the line.

My girls have given me and many boys great pleasure. One taken down while it’s stock is still high is not the worst thing in the world. No chance of future sagging. Stick a bag over my head and a potato sack past my belly and I pass for 30, quite possibly 28. An instance where not breast feeding was a very good idea.

I am anxious about removal of some number (tbd) of axillary lymph nodes; filtering glands. The same glands that can get swollen and sore and messed up when messed with. I have come to depend on the Brita filters in my left armpit.

Some of you know that I have spent the better part of a year and the cost of a small used car on a personal trainer getting back in shape after suffering from a herniated disc. The thought that my triceps will be back to square one, and my biceps more blabber than buff, pummels me.

Remember that episode of General Hospital where the patient wakes up only to learn that a portion of her brain was removed? Surgery scares me. Like all of us, I have a few secrets and I’m worried about being outed once opened. They will certainly find a broken heart.

While I can stomach almost anything, I buckle at the thought of my daughter seeing me ravaged by chemotherapy and it gets worse from there. So much for keeping things close to the chest. It’s all dandelion pollen on a windy day now. If your allergies are bad, you might very well tear up.

Since I may never win an Academy Award and have the opportunity to publicly thank Marty for his amazing support.

Marty, I love you, thank you. And to Karen, Mize and gang, your Thanksgiving dinner rocked as did the leftovers.

This too shall pass. Gam zeh ya’avor.

Momo