Hey! Hey! Hey! Internet!

Yes, I'm still alive. My dogs haven't eaten me in my sleep . . . yet.  

And no, I didn't quit blogging. I just took a break because I had some things going on and when I say, things, I mean THINGS, y'all. 

I still have a treasure trove of ridiculous life stories for you my beloved Internet but nothing is more important than this one I'm about to give you. 

Because if one person learns from my stupidity, then I'll be slap-clappin' jig-dancin' happy. 

So here goes. 

I have special breasts. 

Not in a party trick kind of way special. They don't light up or play tunes or dance independently of one another. Although, if that's possible, I'd like to learn how to make them dance in different directions. Maybe youtube has some boob dancing tutorials. 

And my breasts are not special in a Scarlett-Johansson-fabulous-perky-voluptuous kind of way. 

They used to be quite lovely, perky and voluptuous, but three aggressive teat-sucking babies put an end to that pretty darn quick. I swear, sometimes I thought I birthed wolves instead of little girls with their "grrrrr-let-me-yank-me-out-some-lunch" nursing. 

So now my boobs just look like sad, deflated tube socks that have been through the wash too many times. They only give the illusion of looking fabulous when I'm wearing a damn good constructed bra. Thanks, pushup bras for working extra hard for me. 

No, my breasts are special because they are filled with fibrocystic breast tissue. 

Which means, I am lumpy everywhere. All the time. 

So you would think, Internet, that someone with lumps everywhere would do regular self breast checks and be vigilant about her annual mammograms. 

You would also think that someone whose mother had breast cancer would be ultra vigilant, especially if that mother had two sisters and both those sisters had battled breast cancer, all three of them with three different types of breast cancer, you would think that person would be on top of this breast cancer thing. 

Because, it would be utterly stupid not to be. 

Internet, allow me to introduce myself, I am Stupid Girl. 

I know. 

The crazy thing is I am hyper-vigilant about my health. 

I exercise. 

I surf Web M.D at least three times a week, looking for possible death ailments that fit my symptoms.

I have two, not one, but two, blood pressure machines. 

And yes, I keep empty bottles of hand soap in my closet because I am super organized like that. 

I eat quinoa and kale for fun. For fun, y'all. 

I go to the dermatologist every three months. I am always on time for my annual checkup, not to mention the 3,050 visits in between every time I feel a twinge and turn to Web M.D. and diagnose myself with Bubonic plague. Don't laugh, it's still around. People were getting it in California last year. And yes, I was in California last year. And yes, I totally googled the symptoms of Bubonic Plague and I'm pretty sure I had a light case of it that lasted about 3 days. Luckily, none of my body parts got necrosis and fell off. So, there's that to be thankful for. 

I am at the dentist every 6 months. I floss 45 times a day. 

I don't stand too close to the microwave. I eat organic. I don't drink soda. I don't do crack and I never miss an annual pap smear. 

And every year the doctor hands me my scrip for my special mammogram for my special breasts and every year, I place it on my desk with every intention of calling tomorrow. Tomorrow bleeds into a thousand tomorrows and the same vicious cycle happens year after year after year. 

I know. Stupid, stupid girl. 

My reason for this is so flimsy and inexcusable it is shameful. 

You see, it was all so much trouble. 

The times I'd had a mammogram, it was always, "You have a suspicious mass." 

And that would lead to ultrasounds. And the ultrasounds would lead to an appointment with a specialist and the specialist would say, "You have fibrocystic breasts."

Uh . .  Duh. 

And all of this would add up to weeks of hand-wringing worry, only to be told the same thing every time. 

And that is no excuse. No excuse at all. 

Stupid Girl. 

At my annual pelvic this year, my gynecologist and I were just chatting away as she poked and prodded all my lady parts, when all of a sudden, she said, "Wow, you've got a large mass here."

I was all, "Uh, what?"

She wasn't too concerned, she thought it was most likely more fibroid cysts, but she said I should get it checked out right away, just to be on the safe side. 

My doctor's practice offers mammograms onsite but since I have special breasts that need special mammograms, she gave me a list of diagnostic centers the practice used and sent me on my way. 

That little voice inside of me, that important fate-determining whisper that far too many times I've ignored, nagged at me to make the call right away.

And, for once, I listened.

I didn't like any of the diagnostic centers on the list. I'd been to all of them for various reasons (mostly hypochondriac) over the years and wasn't impressed with their take-a-number approach. So I went home and googled. 

It was to be the first star that lit my way down a fortuitous path, one that I can only explain was set in place by angels or maybe Criss Angel, since he's a magician AND an angel. 

Anyway . . . 

My googling brought me to the top rated mammogram place in my neck of the woods. One reviewer said the center's radiologist actually discussed your mammogram and ultrasound findings with you and that one little bit of information sold me. 

Because there is nothing worse than a radiology technician's poker face. 

And if you've ever had an ultrasound or a mammogram, you know of what I speak. 

I think they have a class that teaches them how to ask certain generic questions that will set off your, "Egads, I'm dying, aren't I?" alarm and then teaches them how to say nothing as they give you that bland but insipid smile that confirms, "Gurrrl, you are so screwed."  

So, because I knew a radiologist would not give me a poker face, I chose Women's Diagnostic Center.

Star number two, set right in front of me. Thanks, Criss Angel. 

I called them immediately. They could get me in the following day. 

I had plans that I didn't want to cancel which may or may not have been my hair appointment, so I asked to be seen the following day. 

Star number three, which will piece together nicely here in a second. 

The place was lovely, peaceful and smelled of vanilla and everyone there was nice. Super nice. 

I was ushered back for my mammogram, still thinking it was nothing but another fibrocystic bugger. 

Everything changed when the mammogram tech asked me in that innocently treacherous way, "Have you ever had any of your cysts biopsied?"

That moment, right there. That was when I knew. 

She finished squishing my boob and breezily said she was going to show my slides to the radiologist, to have a seat, she'd be right back. 

I sat there in my little pink tied-together cloak, focusing on a spot on the wall and tried to breathe. The minutes feeling like hours as I ticked by all the years, all those wasted years, I'd ignored those little slips of paper. How stupid I had been. 

When she came back, she told me the radiologist wanted to see me after my ultrasound. 

That was it for me, the deal sealer. The radiologist was most certainly coming in to perform last rites.

I went through the motions in a daze, soon finding myself reclined in a dark room while the ultrasound tech slid that metal disc over my lubed up breasts. 

As I lay there, trying not to panic, my phone started ringing in my purse. 

And it didn't stop. Over and over and over, someone was trying to call me. At that point, I didn't give a shit if Chicken Little was on the phone to tell me the sky was falling. I didn't care about anything. I was just waiting to hear the word cancer. 

Finally, the ultrasound tech asked if I wanted my purse because I'm sure nothing was more soothing to her than the constant jangle of my phone. 

She handed me my purse and I fished out my phone to see 4,999 missed calls, all from my husband. 

Probably to ask me where the milk was while standing in front of the open fridge, to which I would answer, "try right in front of you" to which he would say, "oh, I didn't see it."

Because on our wedding day, the man vowed to not be able to locate anything for the rest of our days together. 

The phone rang again and I answered to him asking, "Hey, where are you?"

I said, "I'm laying on a table getting an ultrasound."

Which he knew, but apparently I am one of those things he has trouble locating. 

He said, "The weirdest thing just happened."

Every morning before heading off to the office, my husband starts his truck, cranks the air, and comes back inside to gather up all his business things before leaving. A little Florida strategy so that he doesn't melt in his suit from the broiling heat. 

But on this morning, he said he started his truck like usual, closed the door like usual and then he said, "It was weird. It was like someone inside the truck hit the lock (cough, Criss Angel) because the doors all suddenly locked."

His truck was sitting in the garage, locked and running and he didn't have a spare key.

Star number four. 

I had my set of keys, so he enlisted his business partner to drive him up to the diagnostic center.

A few minutes after I hung up, the ultrasound tech finished and left the room to get the radiologist. 

Leaving me there, to stare up at the ceiling with a hammering heart. Knowing. Knowing. And all I could think of was those slips of paper on my desk. 

Stupid, stupid girl. 

And then, Dr. Mary Gardner walked into the room and into my panicked life. 

And a shower of stars lit up the sky.

She held my hand and told me she was going to show me something.

I've never wanted to hide my eyes so much in all my life.

She pointed to a blob on the screen and said, "My dear, you have a mass."

She explained that this was not a cyst, because it had cells. Blobs with cells are never a good thing, especially when they are in your boob.

She talked to me about centimeters, not millimeters mind you, but CENTimeters, how mine had A LOT of them and uneven borders and margins and cells, but she might as well have been speaking to me from underwater. I was frozen on those words, you have a mass.

And just then, the phone I still clutched tightly in my hand, rang.

I answered with a faint hello and my husband, my strong, wonderful husband said,

"I'm here."

He went on to say, "Hey, run those keys out to the parking lot for me if you would. I'm late for an appointment."

I whispered into the phone, "They found something."

He was too busy laughing with his business partner to hear those life-changing words, so he asked me again to jog out into the parking lot with his keys. 

I repeated those awful, awful words. This time he heard them. He said, "I'll be right there."

And he was. Right there. Like he always is. 

He asked the questions I am so usually adept at. He asked the questions as I lay there, trying not to cry, focusing on that one thing, a blob with cells. 

Dr. Mary Gardner answered all of his questions fully and honestly and then she added, "And if I were to biopsy it, because of its large size, I would . . . " The rest was Charlie Brown teacher talk to me, overwhelmed by the fact that all of this was really happening to me. 

And as she explained in detail exactly how she would biopsy it, she suddenly said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I tend to get carried away when I talk about biopsies. It's kind of my specialty."

To which my husband who is the guy who Gets. Things. Done. said, "Can you* do it? Right now?"

And that wonderful Dr. Mary Gardner said, "You know, I would* really like to do this for you. I don't usually work here, but today I'm filling in for a colleague and I have a little downtime before I have to be at my office, so yeah, let's see if we can make this happen."

*I apologize for my overuse of italics, but that's how intense the conversation was—italic intense. 

If I had been there any other day. 

But I wasn't. I was there and Mary Gardner was there and so . . . 

Suddenly, the room was filled with the flurry of things about to get real. Dr. Gardner left to make the phone calls to get this party started. The nurses and techs began prepping the place for a biopsy and I was ushered out of the room to change and wait for a possible biopsy on the same day we discovered my blob with cells. 

John, the owner of the diagnostic center, took us into his office and explained that as much as they would like to do this on the spot biopsy, chances were it would not happen today. That we needed a scrip from my ob gyn and that doctors didn't like to give same day ok's on biopsies. That following medical protocol was kinda a big thing to doctors and this was certainly not protocol. Not at all. 

He then went on to say if our request for this biopsy was denied, that I should have it done by Dr. Mary Gardner, because, in his words, "She is the absolute best." He went on to say that he had been trying to woo her to his practice for years, that he had built his 3D wing, just to entice her, but that Mary wouldn't budge from her practice, which was in her home town many miles from this diagnostic center. 

I took his words in, still numb with shock. After preparing us for what would be an eventual no, he left us to go check on our progress. 

I was trembling and my husband cupped my hand in his and said, "It's going to be fine. If anything, we caught in time, since your last mammogram was clean, right?"

My voice shook as I confessed I hadn't kept up on my mammograms because I am a Stupid Girl. 

All those years, this thing, this terrible thing was probably growing inside of me and now it was big and scary and possibly a danger to me and I did nothing, all because it was too much of a bother. 

I waited with a heavy heart, knowing I had sealed my own fate with my stupidity.  

And then John walked back into the room with a fax and said, "You're not going to believe this. We got an approval."

The following week I spoke to my gynecologist who said once she heard Dr. Mary Gardner was doing my biopsy she approved it without question. 

One more star Criss Angel set in that sky to light my way. 

Before I knew it, I was back on the table, dazed and confused by this speedy turn of events. I had walked out the door for a mammogram this morning, expecting to be done by now and in the drive thru of  Einstein's ordering my favorite bagel. (Thin Everything bagel with egg white, asparagus and swiss cheese) 

But instead, here I was, getting prepped to have a big needle gun through my boob. 

Dr. Gardner walked in and before she did anything else, she gathered my hands in hers and said, "I know this all seems so crazy, so I thought I'd tell you a little bit about myself to make you feel more comfortable."

She ran through her credentials and experience, which were quite impressive. And then she informed me that for a good part of her career she worked with Dr. Charles Cox. 

That path in front of me was now ablaze with a sky full of shimmery stars lighting my way. 

Dr. Cox was the first one to ever diagnose me with fibrocystic breasts. I'd been sent his way after another sketchy mammogram and ultrasound. I met him when he walked into the exam room of our big cancer center with his posse of eager residents. 

Dr. Cox is a breast cancer pioneer who is known for his boob research and some stuff that involves diagnostic and surgical techniques he developed. He's also super nice and made me feel very comfortable even as he used my boob as a teaching tool for the posse of wide eyed residents who acted like they'd never seen a tube sock breast in their life. 

Let me put it this way, not to get ahead of my story, but a few weeks after my biopsy I was in NYC having a conversation with a nurse practitioner, who happened to be from my neck of the woods. I was telling her about my situation and my upcoming surgery and she told me I needed to make sure I had a really qualified breast surgeon who wouldn't mess up my boobs, since my tumor was so exceptionally large. 

As if tube sock boobs really could get messed up any more than they already are. 

I said, "Well, supposedly my doctor's the best in the business."

And she said, "Oh, then Charlie Cox must be your surgeon." I was quite delighted by that confirmation. She went on to say we were lucky to have him since any hospital in the country would jump at the chance to have him. 

But I have skipped ahead. Not to confuse you, but let's go back to me in my pink cloak, seconds away from that needle gun shooting into my boob. 

Dr. Gardner went on to say that even though she loved working with Dr. Cox, there were other factors in her job that made her unhappy. To be clear, Dr. Cox was not one of them, in fact, he was the reason she had stayed longer than she should.  

And then she said, everything changed when her 24-year-old son died in a skiing accident. She realized that life was too unpredictable and precious to waste a second of it, that we all should try for happiness in every single moment we are given on this Earth.

I really liked the sound of that. 

So she left Dr. Cox and moved her practice closer to home. 

She then said a curious thing to me. She squeezed my hand and said, "I feel like the heavens aligned today so that we could meet. I know how it feels to wait for possibly life changing news and I feel so fortunate to be able to do this for you."

I assured her that I was the fortunate one, but she kept insisting, as if I was the one giving her a gift. 

Later on, I found out that her son, an expert skier who lived in Montana, had gone off for a day of solo skiing. 

In March. 

His body was not found until July. 

He had tumbled off an 800 ft cliff that had been covered in snow. Her husband, on one of his many search missions, felt his son's presence in a certain area he was searching. He looked around and came across his son's ski poles. Search and Rescue found their boy's body a few days later. 

She certainly knew how it felt to wait for unimaginable news. 

In all my years to come, I will consider that day of my biopsy a gift. A gift because the terrible was made into something better, something filled with great fortune and hope and kindness because of Dr. Mary Gardner and all the wonderful people put in my path on that day.  

Mary did my biopsy, which was utterly painless, a reassurance for anyone who ever needs to have a biopsy.

And then she left the room to do some doctorly things, while the nurse attended to me. 

A few minutes later she came back in to tell me she'd spent the last ten minutes talking to my husband. She said he peppered her with questions and then he said, "You can't let anything happen to her."

I have banked those words in the cobwebbed compartments of my memory. I'll try to keep his plea in mind every time he can't find his keys, cell, shoes, milk, etc . . . and every time I fall into the toilet in the middle of the night because I've given up asking. 

She hugged me then and whispered, "You're going to be just fine. When you have that kind of love, everything will be fine."

It was the only time I cried while in the office. 

Mary then dashed off. She was late for her real job, but before she left, she gave me her card and told me to call her cell phone anytime for anything, no matter how big or small. 

And then the awful began. 

One week of waiting. 

Seven days of worry. Of waking up in the middle of the night with a pounding heart and a head full of all the terrible possibilities. Of panic attacks in the middle of the grocery store. Of picturing Debra Winger in her hospital bed in Terms of Endearment and the doctor taking her hand and saying, "Dear, you have a malignancy" except it's not Debra Winger in my version, it's me saying the words along with the doctor. Of trying to fill up every moment with life so that I wouldn't think about the big What If. Of every single moment filled with the terror of that What If. Of driving down the road and cry-singing my way through Avicii's, "Wake Me Up" as if it were written for me. "I can't tell where the journey will end, but I know where to start." Of sitting at the stoplight and looking around at the cars around me and wondering what kind of pain and worry all my fellow travelers held in their hearts. Of trying not to Google. Of holding my husband's hand. Of listening, really listening to my daughters, not just their words, but the sweet melodic cadence of their voices as they told me the details of their lives. Of holding on a few more seconds to their hugs. Of relishing the fact that I have been a fortunate soul to have all these beautiful years with my family. Of getting down on my knees constantly in those seven days, begging through tears for the Lord to grant me even more. 

It was hard. The only thing harder were the days of bottomless grief after my dad's sudden death. 

But finally, that week came to its slow motion end and by 10 AM on the seventh day when the diagnostic center had not called, my husband, the man who Gets. Things. Done. suggested I call them. 

I couldn't. I was so crippled in anxiety, the thought of punching in the numbers made me feel like I was going into cardiac arrest. My husband offered to make the call and so I let him. He sat at his desk and I stood over him, every bit of me, a quivering mess. 

The receptionist told him they had the results, but they hadn't gone over them with Dr. Gardner yet, so they weren't allowed to discuss them with me. She offered to put him through to our new friend, John, the owner of the center.  John told my husband he was in the middle of a meeting, but he would contact Dr. Gardner as soon as he was done and get back to us ASAP.

And then my husband said with all of his wishful thinking, "Can you tell me, at least, if it's good news. It's good news, right?"

John said something to my husband on his end of the phone. I didn't know what it was, but I watched my husband's face go pale. It makes me feel a little pukey even now, writing the words, conjuring up the memory of hope fading from my husband's face. 

He hung up and looked at me. I was trembling violently by this point and I said, "Oh God. That's it. He said it's bad, right? I've got cancer."

My husband tried to reassure me but all he could give me were John's words to his question of it being good news. John had said, "Well, I'm not going to go there."

Which could mean anything. But in my mind, it meant, "Gurllll, you are so screwed!"

I took a shower because it was the only thing I could think to do besides throwing up and I by the time I got out I was filled with a righteous indignation. I told my husband that I would not wait a single more second, that I was going to call them up and demand answers.

(In the meantime, I do not want you to think, Internet, that Women's Diagnostic are bad people. On the contrary. They could not have been kinder or more helpful. And if it wasn't for them, that gift of a day would have never happened.)

After I bitched and moaned, my husband reminded me of Dr. Mary's card. The card with her cell phone number on it. 

I called, putting her on speakerphone at my husband's insistence. 

She picked up immediately and as I stumbled over myself apologizing and telling her how the diagnostic center couldn't tell me, she cut me off with, "Oh honey. BENIGN. IT'S BENIGN."

I have been told a lot of words in my lifetime. Life-changing words, "Hey, my name's Bill. Aren't you in my English Lit class?" "I love you." "You have been accepted." "You're hired." "We want you to write for our paper." "Will you marry me?" "I do." "Meet your daughter." "Meet your newest daughter." "Meet another one of your daughters." "Hey, just so you know, your dress was tucked in your underwear the whole time you were talking during the meeting." 

But no words have ever left me feeling more alive, so thankful for the big and small days to come. 

The feeling was temporary. 

Dr. Mary Gardner put me in contact with Dr. Cox's nurse who was kind enough to move some things around and get me into see the boob man asap. 

I had a fibroepithelial lesion with cellular stroma and I had no idea what that meant, but Dr. Gardner said even though it was benign, it needed to come out because it was big and it was the kind of thing that would only grow bigger. 

So since I would rather have tube sock boobs than elephant man boobs, I went to go see Dr. Cox. 

After examining me and checking out all my diagnostic results, Dr. Cox told me he couldn't be sure it was benign. That my lesion was big, disconcertingly big, that the big ones are always tricky because malignant cells can hide, that he couldn't rule cancer out. And that the only way to properly figure out what the hell this blob was overtaking my boob was to excise it along with a good amount of the surrounding tissue. He said it would be a large excision, but not to worry, he was good at not leaving scars and that the divot would hardly be noticeable because of my ample breasts. 

He did not add ample, tube sock breasts, but we all know he was thinking it. 

And then he told me not to worry because it would be fine. He would make it so. 

And honestly? I didn't worry. Thanks to Criss Angel and the blanket of stars that had brought me here, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. In the best of hands. 

I didn't get anxious until the day before my surgery when I realized that I was about to have my ample tube sock cut open and I could possibly tomorrow be Debra Winger lying in a hospital bed and that's when I burst into tears listening to "Total Eclipse of The Heart" while driving the kids to school, cry-singing, "Every now and then I fall apart. Turn around Bright Eyes." While the teenagers all stared at me in what-the-hell silence. 

And since I wasn't allowed to have wine 24 hours before my surgery, (what the hell?) I decided the next best way to relax was to go shopping. 

I needed a button up shirt to go home from the hospital and as soon as I saw this, I heard Katy Perry singing, "You're gonna hear me roar. Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh."

I walked into the surgery center the next day in my leopard spots, my pink slippers, ready to take on this effin' fibroepithelial lesion with cellular stroma. 

First thing on the agenda was the placement of the wire. 

A Wire. In My Boob. 

Yes, I know. Your boobs are cringing at those words. And so were mine. 

But honestly, it was painless. In fact, it was quite nice. 

I was taken back to a cubicle with an ultra plush recliner. I almost felt like the nurse was going to pull up a stool and ask me what color I wanted my pedicure. They did all my essential workups while I kicked back in that recliner. And then they took me to another room where a doctor stuck a wire into my boob and through my tumor to guide Dr. Cox during surgery.

I'm telling you, a paper cut was more painful than the wire placement. 

The only problem was I now had a wire sticking out of my boob and that freaked me out a bit. 

I mentioned it to the nurse and she taped it up with gauze and that was the end of that. 

Then it was on to surgery. 

Dr. Cox came in and chatted with us for about 30 minutes and about five minutes into our chat, my husband said, "Hey, can you take a picture of the tumor when you're in there?"

To which Dr. Cox said, "Oh yeah, I can take a picture."

That's when my husband knew Dr. Cox was his kind of people. 

And for anyone who likes that sort of stuff, here's the picture Dr. Cox texted my husband. Everyone else close your eyes.

Say hello to my little friend. 

Surgery went well. Probably because there's a lot of room to work with in tube sock boobs. 

Here I am high as a kite and makeup free in recovery. I know, breathtaking.

I was sore and when I tell you my boob looks like it's been run over by a big rig and then thrown off a cliff where a stampede of mountain goats trampled over it, I would be understating the purple, black and blue thing that was my breast. 

Here's the top of my chest wall. There is nothing inappropriate showing here. My bathing suit gives off more flesh, but I just wanted you to see a small inkling of the bruising.

The entire boob was a rainbow of bruised colors. And yes, that is Dr. Cox's autograph. He marked it so he would operate on the correct boob. I wish I'd had that inked over. I would have loved to have had a mysterious tattoo souvenir of that day. 

But as bad as it looked, I only needed one day of pain pills. And now the only time I hurt is when I'm doing my Beyonce moves to "All The Single Ladies" while driving and the seat belt cinches too tight during the "Whoa-oh-oh" move. Or when well meaning people give me the big bear hug which is more like a hug mammogram and say, "How are you feeling?" To which I want to answer, "AAAIIIIEEEE!"

(I've gotten to the point, where I just say when I see them moving in for a meaningful hug, "Don't hug the boob hard." And that seems to work.)

One week after my surgery, I got the news:

I had a phylloide tumor. A BENIGN phylloide tumor. 

And for those of you curious—phylloide tumors are rare breast tumors, making up less than 1% of breast tumors. They are fast-growing and usually big-ass tumors. (I am paraphrasing the American Cancer site.) They are either benign, borderline or malignant with the majority being benign. They're different from the rest of the breast cancers because the tumor grows in the connective tissue instead of the duct and if even one phyllode cell is left in the breast, the tumor will come back, thus this type of lumpectomy takes a wide margin of tissue around the tumor just to be on the safe side. And most importantly, because of the large excision, you will not be allowed to take a bubble bath for an entire month. 

I KNOW! I almost fell off the exam table at that one. 

And for anyone who is going in for a lumpectomy, here's my best bits of advice:

You MUST buy this bra for your recovery.

Lumpectomy patients are advised to wear a supportive bra 24/7 until they're healed. I had gone out and bought myself a fancy, expensive athletic front closing bra. I never wore it. Most athletic bras have too much compression for a healing boob. It hurts. My daughters happened to be in Walmart the day after my surgery and spotted the As Seen On TV Genie Bra. And since my daughters are As Seen On TV addicts who think everyone of their products are miracles from heaven, no matter how cheaply they're constructed, they got me one. 

I made them go back and get me three more. 

I would never wear this bra in my normal life, it's not the best for tube socks, but for healing, it has been an As Seen On TV miracle from heaven. Not too tight and not too loose, perfect for black and blue boobs. Buy it bigger than your normal size and buy it in pink. 

Give your body time to heal. Lay around without feeling guilty. Allow your family to pamper you. (As if that happened in my house . . . puhlleeease.  That first day when I got home I was drinking water like a racehorse, constantly calling for more water like I was in the Sahara. My husband finally brought me the giant Big Daddy water jug our girls use for soccer with an extension straw made from pieced together straws so it would reach me in bed. That was the extent of my pampering.) 

Be prepared to feel sad. For no reason. I started crying about midway through the week and didn't stop for a couple of days. I have no idea why. I didn't lose my boob. The bruises were going to heal. I was benign. But everything just made me feel blue. Thankfully after a few days, the sadness lifted and I'm back to waking up every morning thinking, "Yay! I get to have coffee!" Like usual. But just be ready, because that sadness snuck up behind me and smacked me over the head. 

Try not to eat all the Butterfingers in the candy dish because you won't be allowed to work out for awhile. I wish someone had given me this heads up because now I am suffering from Butterfinger Bloat and I cannot power kick my way out of it. At least, not yet. 

Buy yourself a subscription to Netflix because Homeland sucks this year and Netflix has every season of Breaking Bad which is officially the best show ever. 

And best of all, use your lumpectomy as an excuse for anything and everything you effin feel like.
Don't feel like going to parent/teacher conference? A lumpectomy. Don't want to take the dogs out? I'm afraid they'll jump on my lumpectomy site. Don't want to listen to your daughter bitch about the theft of her clothes by her sister? My lumpectomy pains me to listen to such a high pitch. Don't want your husband to be in charge of the remote for once? My lumpectomy really feels like watching the last seven episodes of The Mindy Project. 

You still want to stay in your pajamas and slippers nine days after your surgery?

Go ahead and pick up the kids from school rocking your floral jammie pants and pink slippers. It makes your lumpectomy feel better.  

You want to lie in bed all day and google "Ryan Gosling is beautiful"?

Your lumpectomy feels better at the sight of Ryan. Everything feels better at the sight of Ryan. 

You want Mexican food? My lumpectomy is craving chorizo queso.* **

*Yes, that is a real thing my favorite Mexican restaurant makes and it is better than love and puppies and beautiful shoes combined. 

**My Butterfinger Bloat is compounded by Chorizo Queso bloat. 

So, there you have it. The story of my boob, a cautionary tale involving various song lyrics, Criss Angel and Chorizo Queso. I feel like a million kindnesses from the heavens were showered down upon me throughout my journey. My boob story could have easily had a sad ending, but by the Grace of God, I was spared. Something far too many women can never say. Every three minutes a woman is diagnosed with breast cancer. Every thirteen minutes, someone dies from this terrible disease. 

Please, my sisters, from the lips of a once stupid girl, check your ta-ta's. Get your annual mammogram. Be your own warrior. Don't let those slips of paper pile up. Don't get around to it one of these days. Do It Now. Make the call. Go get your puppies squashed. It's never too much of a bother. Your loved ones will thank you. 

Today's Definite Download: NoNoNo's "Pumpin' Blood." Because it's such a kicky song it makes me happy. "Cause it's your heart, it's alive, it's pumpin' blood and the whole wide world is whistling." Yes, it is. 

And because it doesn't hurt the ta-ta's when I'm car dancing to this great song. 

Go check your Ta-Ta's. Love you guys. Glad to be back. 

Well, it's official, I win the world's worst mother of the year award.  Step aside, Dina Lohan and Kris Kardashian.  They've successfully raised train wrecks.  I have now successfully ensured years worth of therapy for my daughter. I can see it now, her curled in a fetal ball on the shrink couch during every session, whispering, "It all started with my mother." Tanning Mom tans her daughter. I emotionally scar my girl.  Honey Boo Boo's mom feeds her redneck pint-sized beauty queen, Go-Go juice in the hopes that  Honey Boo Boo's crack-fueled performances will make her hollah for a dollar.  I fuel my daughter on neglect, my dismal failure as a mother and the hope that what doesn't kill her, will make her effing stronger.  My Julia is this glorious creature with a crown of Renaissance curls.  Sweet and gentle, the sassiness that ensnares 14-year-old girl's souls, has bypassed her heart and for that I am grateful every single day.  Having survived the treacherous journey of raising two teenage girls before her, I was bracing for the squall that would eventually hit our household for the third go-round. Her sisters were these angelic bundles of spun-sugar sweetness, all golden haired pig-tails, pink tutus and cartwheels on the lawn. They loved their sisters, their mommy and daddy and their Barbies, not necessarily in that order.  And then came the day when everything changed.  I will never forget it. I asked my eldest, who was about 12 at the time, to put the gallon of orange juice, back in the fridge. And in a flash of a second, a voice that did not belong to my delicate flower of a girl came out of her, a voice that was more suited to a green-vomit-spewing entity.  My little blonde entity had a stream of consciousness to her satanic verses that went like this:
"NoIamNOTputtingitbackbecausemysisterwasdrinkingittooandmyshoulderhurtsandthe orangejuiceistooheavyformetoliftanditsallyourfaultandmysisterhaditlastsosheshouldputit backandthisissonotfairyouaresomeanyou'veruinedmylifeandIhaaaaateyou." And then she burst into tears.  Hormone-induced free-for-alls became the bone weary stuff of my days from that moment on and not too long after, her sister joined in, doubling the the hormonal pleasure and fun.  No one tells you about any of this when they place that little pink bundle in your arms. No one even hints about it until the first time that wall of estrogen hits you like a PMS tsunami.  Only then, do the other shell-shocked parents of teenage girls come clean, doling out sage bits of advice with dead eyes, like—When it gets really bad, I've got a hiding place in the closet behind the pants.  And—I've thought about duct tape, but her shrieks would more than likely melt the plastic.  And of course— Alcohol is the only way through to the other side. 
It's like surviving a Bieber concert, you don't truly understand the horror until you've experienced it for yourself.  It is why I am grateful every day for this third lovely girl of mine whose head does not spin and whose gentle spirit does not make me want to run screaming from my house.  Julia dove into high school, ready to try on everything.  She became a part of the Student Council. She signed up for Archery Club. She joined FFA—Formerly known as Future Farmers of America, FFA is not your Mama's FFA. It is now a worldwide organization, training the future chemists, global environmentalists, veterinarians and other fields of the future. Julia is planning on a career in the wine industry, winemaking to be exact. (I swear, I did NOT influence her except to teach her the finer points of wine from the moment she could swirl her apple juice in a wine glass.) And her school just happens to have one of the best FFA programs in the state.  Last week, she helped shear the sheep. She now wants a few sheep. As in pets. As in, sheep on our lawn. The only way I would give in to sheep is if I could be guaranteed the sheep would eat the ducks.   Suffice to say, she is a girl of diverse interests.  A few weeks into the school year, my Julia Girl announced she was trying out for soccer.  When she made the team, we were thrilled. Soccer in Florida is a highly competitive sport where Select, Club and Travel leagues abound. Played year round, people are SERIOUS about soccer in Florida.  Some, more than others.  And since I'm no Eminem and I don't need no contr-o-vers-y, I'll just say my position on soccer and other organized activities is a whole lotta lotta different than most parents. Everyone makes the best choices for their own child and in our house, we choose to spend the bulk of our free time as a family doing things together.   And because of that, we have chosen rec soccer as the best fit for our children. This means no highly specialized training with super-trainers, no trekking across the state and country every weekend for soccer tournaments, no devoting our every waking moment to soccer. Hell, I've got three kids. If I amped up the activity level with each one of them, I'd have no Me Time.  And Mama likes long, hot bubble baths, preferably with some wine on the side.    This choosing to stay at a rec level makes us an anomaly in the soccer community. I have been asked far too often by other soccer parents, "Don't you want to advance her skill level?" "Don't you want her to stay competitive with the other players?" I just smile and tell them we're fine playing recreational soccer as they dubiously raise their eyebrows, judging me with their silent eyebrow language as an unfit soccer mom  And that's okay. I might not have big enough shoulders to carry their derision, but my ample upper arms make up for it.  Although, what I've always wanted to say to those well-meaning parents and their arched eyebrows is, "I refused to drink the Kool-Aid. Besides, I'm more of a champagne fan, myself. You should try it, sometime. The bubbles are marvelously ticklish." If my lovely girl wanted to advance her skill level by eating, breathing and sleeping soccer, than by golly, this Mama would take a few less bubble baths and chug the Kool-aid.  But my Julia would chafe at that frenzied level. She needs time to play with her ducks and dogs, to shoot her bow and arrows,   To learn new tricks on her skateboard,  To fish and catch minnows in the shallow waters of the lake,  Boogie board at the beach, stalk One Direction on the Internet and in concert, Yes, my girl made the front page of the Tribune the day after the concert.  Hang out at the Un-Magical Kingdom And, of course, watch North Korean documentaries with me—you know the usual mother/daughter kind of bonding.  In short, Julia needs time to be Julia.  Going into tryouts, Julia knew the majority of other girls would be club girls with club level skills. But she and that intrepid heart of hers gave it her all and her fierce rec skills won her a place on the team.  On the way to her first game, I was taken aback when she turned snippy and started lashing out at all of us. She berated her sister for coming to the game, telling Tori she didn't want her there. She growled at her father over insignificant things and pretty much verbally assaulted me with the strength of an AK 47.  I was all, "Girlfriend, you better straighten up before that phone of yours goes out the window."  Because there's one thing I've learned in this business of raising girls, if you want to traumatize a teenage girl for life, TAKE AWAY HER PHONE.  She settled down, but she was still a mite growly and snappish all the way to the game, so unlike her.  And that's when it hit me.   With a heavy heart, I realized our days of sweetness and light just might be coming to a close. Hurricane Estrogen Princess was, once again, bearing down upon us.  I gave her the stink-eye and said, "What's with you, Crazy-Girl?"  At my question, she sniffled, all rawness and nerves, on the edge of tears and said in a wobbly voice,  "I'm not going to play. I'm a freshman and I'm not Club. I know I won't play. I don't want you guys there because I'm not going to play." I should have known.  This wasn't about sassiness and estrogen overload.  This was about playing her very first high school game. In a football stadium. With professional refs.  And stands full of fans cheering her on, not just parents but her own peers.  In her other soccer life, she played on busy Saturdays, with dozens of others teams stretched across one big community soccer field, the comforting anonymity of games being played all around her with teams on their own little allotted portion of grass. Parents and grandparents parked their lawn chairs right up against the soccer lines and the refs were all from the same lot of pimply-faced 15-year-olds. Everyone got a chance to play and if you messed up, it was okay. The fans on the sidelines, your teammates who were also your slumber party friends, and your coaches who were the parents of your teammates, would all still love you the same.  In short, the game had changed and she was scared to death.  I reassured her that we didn't care if she played, that we were there to support her and her team in this new world of big-time soccer.  As we dropped her off, she left the car still muttering about not playing.  Her team played like champs, having a sound lead by halftime. And just as Julia had predicted, she didn't play that whole first half.   And that was okay. Traditionally, freshmen don't get a lot of playing time. They have to earn it.  It was evident early in the second half, we were going to win the game.  I kept one eye on my sweet girl on the bench as I watched the game. There were no announcers and the girls looked like miniature dolls there on the stadium field, so I will admit, I had a slightly tough time keeping up with the game.  Oh, who am I kidding! I've always had a hard time keeping up with the game.  My girls have been playing soccer since they were little bits in oversized jerseys, which is a very long time.  And I still don't know the rules because that's how it goes with me and sports. It's all like one big foreign language to me. I just nod, pretend to understand and talk loudly in general terms.  I know I'm always safe to yell things, like, "GOOD KICK" "GREAT KICK!" "WAY TO KICK!" "LOVE YOUR CLEETS! THE COLOR JUST POPS!" Here's really all I know about soccer: *If your team kicks the ball into the goal, you get a point.  *The team with the most points wins, but no matter who wins, we parents make a bridge for both teams       where we cheer wildly for them as they run through our clasped skyward hands.  *Bridges are none too popular past the age of 12 and if you dare to try and make a bridge after the age of 12, you will mortify your soccer player for life. *And our concession stand fries are delicious, better than all the other soccer field fries combined. (It's in the spices.) I don't know much else, especially when it comes to that annoying Offsides rule. I've had it explained to me more than a few times, but it's like Geometry and pet ferrets, I just don't get it.   Anywhoo: I diligently followed my daughter's game as best as I could, keeping my eye on her little form sitting on the bench. And as the game wound down, I relaxed a bit, chatting with the other parents and my hubs and catching up on a few texts and emails.  My Tori had found a friend, as she is wont to do wherever we go and she'd fled the parents' section to go sit with the non-mortifying people in her life.  It was an easy win for our team and after the game, I counseled my daughter and hubs, telling them to  be very sensitive about our Julia's lack of playtime.  You would think this sort of thing would need no counsel, that parents and siblings would instinctively be sensitive to this.  But that would be normal people, not my family of primates.  On the way out, we hugged her, telling her what a great game it had been and how proud we were of her for being a part of that team. She was unusually quiet. So, of course, being the compassionate mother I am, I gently said to her, "Honey, don't be sad about not playing. This is the way things go in high school sports. Your time will come." And that's when my beautiful daughter saaaaid: "But I played! The last 20 minutes I was on the field." All three of us turned to her in disbelief and said in unison, "You were?" None of us. Not a one out of three, spotted her. For twenty minutes of her very first high school game.  Yes, I am an asshole mother.  I know during that precious 20 minutes, my Hubs was busy discussing the finer merits of the Big Green Egg with another father. And when you get that man started on pork butts in the Egg, the end of the world could come to pass with fire and brimstone and people getting raptured and he would still be sitting there rhapsodizing about the fall-off-the-bone succulence of those pork butts to no one but the smoking holes around him.  The man is an Egghead. Among other things.  Tori was busy with her friends.  As for me? Well, there's no excuse, but I was, in fact, texting my eldest daughter. The college girl who is smart. On paper. You remember: this girl. And this same girl.  She'd sent me a text saying: I think I need to bring my cold medicine back to the store. I just got it and it's already expired. It says Expiration: 10/13 and today's 10/19! Yes. She did.  I spent a good portion of that 20 minutes trying to explain to her that the 13 was the year, as in 2013.  At least, she's pretty.  By the time we got to the car, Julia was shrieking,   "Ican'tbelieveyouguysdidn'tseemeplayyouaresomeanandyou'veruinedmylifeiamtextingall myfriendstotellthemmyfamilyhatesme." I felt lower than pond scum. In other words, lower than Kate Gosselin.  I mean, there was a father at the game who had had listed all the player's names and numbers, laminated them and handed them out to all the parents. All the while, he had his tripod set up and was filming the entire game.  What were we doing? Talking about pork butts and texting.  For shame.  The good news is, Julia is my Julia. And along with her sweet spirit, she has a big, forgiving heart.  After a guilt stop at Dairy Queen and many apologies, she quickly brushed off the trauma. After all, as she so often reminds me, she is the third kid. She knows her place and her place is to make as little waves as possible. And she's cool with that. It's almost like her laid back spirit formed that way in the womb, knowing the chaotic estrogen-filled life she would enter.   Since then, she has played a few more games and I am proud to say, our eyes have not left the field.  I hope in the days to come, she will remember this trauma as the singular worst time I ruined her life.  And if that's the case, I'll be cool with that. I know in my daughters' eyes, my job is to ruin their lives.  My only  hope is they don't write a tell-all book: MOMMY DEAREST—THE LIFE RUINER.  Because that would be bad.  Today's Definite Download: Okay, True Confession time. As a music junkie, I love discovering new bands and artists that haven't quite made it yet. I treasure those finds and I keep them close to my chest because once they're discovered by the mainstream and their songs are all over the radio or even worse, the soundtrack for the Swiffer Jet and/or car commercials, they lose their luster for me.       A few years ago, I stumbled upon a band called Imagine Dragons. And like I often do, I turned my girls on to this fabulous indie group. My Julia loves them. I'm happy, (at least, for them), to say their music has recently popped up on the radio and in movie soundtracks. And even though they're in the danger zone of being overplayed, I still love their sound.  This is, "It's Time," a song you might have heard a time or two before. Although, this version, right here, is a stripped down, no-enhancements, acoustic version of their hit. I like it better.  Along with that, I have a truly undiscovered treasure to share. Dan Reynolds of Imagine Dragons is married to Aja Volkman the FIERCE lead singer of the indie band Nico Vega. The two of them formed a little experimental band called Egyptian. And I LOVE the sound of their two voices together.  This, song, right here is "Wait For You,"a song they wrote and sing together. Once this comes on my iPod I hit replay all the day long.  But "It's Time" is for my Julia—"I never want to let you down." And I promise, I'll try to never miss a moment of your life again.