Tuesday, September 4, 2007

My Body Is A Judas

I hate MRIs. Not that I know anyone who actually enjoys having one done, but I just dread them with every fiber of my being. I'd rather have a major surgery. At least during a surgery you're out cold and then they give you really good drugs afterward. With an MRI, you get to be awake the entire time in some unnatural position with a futuristic tube surrounding you like you're in some godforsaken sci-fi movie or something. And don't get me started on the noises...the whirring, the beeping, the high pitched "chirps", and all the while the only thing I can think about is what horrible disease they're uncovering in the process. Cause you all know, I'm dying of something.

Yes, I'm a hypochondriac. But I have totally good reasons for that. It's like crazy with a purpose. I'm carrying around this deadly BRCA2 gene, like a god damn F*cking Judas in my DNA, waiting to kiss me goodbye with a malevolent lump of cancer in one or both of my breasts. How ironic that I spent so many years immersed in self destructive behaviors, and now I find out that all that work and sacrifice (or more specifically "exercise and starving") was wholly unnecessary? My body was probably thinking "girl, I got that covered".

So now, I guess I fight for my life. It's a weird passive aggressive fight, though. It's like I'm not really doing anything but talking to doctors and getting bloodwork and going for tests. And then, of course, my big day. My prophylactic bilateral mastectomy, which is just a fancy way of saying "I'm getting my boobies cut off so I don't get cancer". In a weird way, I was looking forward to it. I thought it would be such a relief to not have to worry (as much) about this issue anymore. Plus, my breasts have never been anything to write home about. Just these little barely there things, a big whatever. But now that its getting closer to setting the date, I'm getting really sentimental about them. They may be small, but they're mine. Am I really ready to cut myself up? Will it be worth it to scar myself forever? To change my body, a big part of who I am? How much am I defined by this physical self really? I am just so angry to have to make this decision in the first place...I wish I could go back to the days when I had control over my own suffering.

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