February 2004 "Week of the Boob"

I'm three days away from Infusion #6 - halfway through the muck. It's all been an exercise in learning to let go, yet hang on -- and believing in the magic of your dreams.

I thought I'd post a segment of my pre-blog writings when I was first diagnosed five years ago. At this point I'm on the chemo pony and riding, not much to report except how grateful I am for the love and support by so many - family, friends, strangers, angels. Jared arrives on Thursday, I look forward to his loving care. Thank you KC, for the Alaska Airlines pass - you are thanked beyond words. And thank you to all that have visited, written, called, laughed and cried with me over the weeks.

I just realized that this might be considered in poor taste due to recent loss in the Jackson family - please read, knowing that it was written in 2004, not recently.

“February 8^th , 2004 - The Week of the Boob”

While the entire nation focused on Janet Jackson’s right….I was riveted on my left. Only in America.

For 38 frames, the nation saw Janet’s rather pre-fabricated right mammary…and went insane. Interesting that the focus was on the breast and not as much on the action of Timberlake – the choreographed “rip” of her bodice, revealing. Not much mention of Nelly’s ubiquitous tug on his testicles within each stanza – Kidd Rock’s lyrics of sexual domination – only the breast. Only in America.

Let me get off track here for a minute…With 36 cameras at the director’s beck-n-call…couldn’t we have seen at least a wide shot of the streaker? After the barrage of half-time forced sexuality, what’s wrong with the ballet of a naked man and his pursuers on a football field? Only in America.

During this same week, far from the fray – I exposed my breast to far fewer folks than the super bowl crowd…for me there was no music, no 36 cameras, my costume the tired-but-true cotton hospital gown that even when tied would be edited out on any channel other than cable. The images gleaned from the mammogram, directly followed by the “live, you are there,” footage of the ultrasound, didn’t reveal a star shaped pasty…rather a small dark spot. An abyss. I sense the replays will be endlessly evaluated by a myriad of coaches, referees and of course, the crowd. As the player, I stand on the sideline, awaiting the outcome.

I suddenly wanted to be anywhere else – mortality pounding in my head. The fear passed, but it is there, as insidious as the lump. The radiologist, with the authoritatively calming voice of a sportscaster, recited the play by play for the next quarter…surgeon, biopsy, gathering hope.

Time to bring in the special team. I meet the surgeon next week; we’re moving the playing field to home advantage. My breast will be revealed to more. The difference between my naked ambition and Jackson’s… is while Janet’s is of livelihood – mine is of life. My rhythm nation - in America.