My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 5

It’s been a while since I updated my blog. Sorry, I’ve been a little busy.

Still surgery day. I’m done with all the pre-cutting fun and return to the husband so we can go back to the private pre-torture room. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Finally Dr. P. shows up. Then the anasteshiologist (whatever). It’s the guy that puts you to sleep. You know who I’m talking about. We chat, I kiss the husband, and I’m wheeled off to the operating room. Kinda weird, they had me get off the bed at the door and walk in to the OR. But it kinda makes sense. I’ve been sitting/laying for a while. This gets the blood circulating. Probably two seconds after laying down, it’s lights out.

I’m just going to speculate about what happens while I’m under anasteshia (I know..get over it). I’m sure someone (hopefully the surgeon) inevitably says, “Scalpel” and away we go. I wonder if anybody comments on the size and density of my floppy 49 year old boobs. If I was awake, I'm sure I'd tell them, "Hey, these are Neiman Marcus boobs!" Do they talk about the weather…a recent bad date…the bottle of wine that was consumed at dinner last night.  I wonder if they listen to music. Rock…Country…?  Maybe Brian Adams, “Cuts Like a Knife”..?? LOL. Sorry, can’t help myself.

Next thing I know, I’m waking up gasping for breath. And I mean I can’t breathe. I pull the oxygen mask off my face, someone puts it back on. I pull it off again. Someone says, “I can’t breathe with this thing on my face.” It might have been me. After several fights over the oxygen mask, I win. That’s a relative term since, uh, duh, it’s oxygen. Meant to help me breath. But I’m not in my right mind, again. I don’t hear anybody speaking Mandarin Chinese this time though.  I finally open my eyes. Just enough to see the recovery nurse standing over me. She says, “Welcome back. You gave me a run for my money.” I said, “Oh?” She proceeds to tell me that I’ve had two breathing treatments and a couple of shots. “I used skills I haven’t had to use in a long time,” she says. Well, at least I’m getting my money’s worth. I’m starting to breathe a little better. Enough that I get to sit up and look around. The man in the bed next to me keeps trying to get up and go home. The nurse has to keep pushing him back down. I find it comical. I don’t know why.

Finally, I’m wheeled back to the private pre-torture room. The husband and a BFF come in or they’re already there. I don’t remember. Still in a fog.  They were told they could see me in an hour. And it’s been two hours. The husband thought maybe they wheeled me to the curb without telling him, and I’ve been sitting outside waiting for him for 60 minutes. That would have been a hoot.  I’m told that Dr. P. told the husband the lump of lotion was larger than he expected. That’s not good. But he thinks he got it all. That’s good. He also said that the lymph node was negative for cancer. That is good. So very good.  The husband and I had a discussion prior to surgery that if Dr. P. came out of the operating room during surgery with news that it wasn’t good, he would be instructed to just take the boob. I’m glad it didn’t come to that, but if it had, I can live without a boob. I have two more anyway (snicker). Inside joke.

We get after surgery instructions to remove the bandages and shower tomorrow.  We both wonder how that’s possible, but okay. Whatever they say. Take the pain medication before you need it (that’s very good advice). I’m told I have a “spacer” in my boob with a plastic tube sticking out in the cavernous area between the girls. It’s not for draining. There is no drain.  I know I heard them say I could shower. I ask, “Are you sure it’s okay to shower?” Yes, they’re sure. They give me this plastic breathing device. Use it 5 or 6 times an hour to prevent pneumonia. Great, something else I have to think about. I get dressed, and someone wheels me out to the curb. The husband brings the car, and we head for home. I’m not in much pain at the moment. Just still very groggy. I don’t recall much except getting home and passing out on the bed. Later, another BFF comes over to check on me, and brings food for the family. My family and friends are the best. I’ll say that again and again before this is all over.  I don’t remember if I tried to eat soup that night. I do remember praying to the porcelain god a couple of times. It’s all a blur. Sorta like a hangover, just without all the fun. Although I can’t be positive, I’m pretty sure there aren’t any secret photos that need to be destroyed before they get into the wrong hands.

As instructed, we remove the bandages the day after surgery. OMG. I look like the bride of Frankenstein. Nine staples and several sutures across the boob. Eight staples and several sutures under the arm pit. The incisions are long…barbaric looking. This is 2011, right? You’d think technique would be a little better at this stage of the game. Although I’m very shaky, the shower feels good. It’s great to wash off the hospital smell and put on clean jammies. Back to bed. Sleep. Watch television. It’s true….daytime television is so boring.

My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 4

So the surgery day is here. I know, I’ve jumped about a week, but nothing interesting happened except for a bunch of worrying, crying, hugging, talking and internet surfing. I started a new college class - not sure at this point if that was a mistake. Guess I’ll find out later. Anyway, we’re up at the butt crack of dawn. Anybody that knows me knows I’m not a happy camper. I hate getting up at the butt crack of dawn. I shower and wash my hair. Brush my teeth, but can't swallow any water. This is tough for me because usually the first thing I do when I wake up is drink about 16 ounces of water. I lotion up (against the rules) and put on comfortable clothes that I just bought the day before - nothing like waiting til the last minute. No makeup. No jewelry. I feel naked.

We arrive at the hospital and there’s a computer check-in to be completed, although I was just here a couple of days ago and completed all the pre-op stuff (which consisted of a gazillion papers and computer stickers) and donated blood. “Do you want to pay your deductible?” it asks. Of course I don’t. Who would? So, I say no. The hospital lady doesn’t seem to care. I consider it a win for the little person.

There are quite a few people here at the butt crack of dawn. We’re herded to the surgery waiting room like a bunch of sheep being lined up for the slaughter. I wonder why the other people are here. Anybody have breast cancer? Of course I can’t tell just by looking at them, and noone's wearing a sign. It’s not long before I am called to the back and placed in my own private pre-torture room, where I have to get butt naked and put on the surgery gown. This is no ordinary gown. It’s really thick, soft paper with lots of plastic lined holes where heat or cool air could be pumped inside. I could use some cool air. The shoulders have Velcro at the top so you don’t have to get half-naked for the medical staff to examine the upper part of your body. It’s one of the nicest “the opening goes in the back” gowns I’ve ever worn. Plus I get cool purple socks. I know. Doesn’t take much to make me happy. The nurse starts the IV. She's good. I hardly felt it. She tells me I’m going to another area for two medical procedures, then I’ll be brought back to my private pre-torture room. Medical procedures? Today? As if there isn’t enough going on already.

I don't really remember, but I think we (me and the husband) walk over to the other medical area the nurse told us about, where we sit and wait. We’re both pretending to be interested in the television. A lady sits across from me, in the same surgical gown and purple socks. But she has on makeup….a lot of it…and clog shoes. What part of no makeup, lotion, gel, etc. did she not understand?  I know, I have on lotion. But it’s not something that can be seen like makeup. I find her makeup really odd looking…almost like it’s been tattooed on. I stare, hoping I’m not too obvious. When a technician comes to get me I feel bad that I’m leaving the husband sitting across from her. Scary.

The technician explains that she’s going to smash-o-gram my boob so a doctor can insert a needle that will be used by Dr. P. to find his way to the blob of lotion. Kinda like using a map so you don’t get lost driving from one place to another. What, Dr. P. too afraid to ask for directions?  So the technician smashes me...don’t move, she says. Good thing eye rolling is silent. The doctor gives me a numbing shot, and inserts the needle. Unfortunately, the needle decides it doesn’t want to find the blob of lotion and it goes astray. “Oops”, he says, “gotta do it again.” Oops? Did he really just say oops? With twelve pound bowling balls for boobs, gravity is not my friend. So the technician has to re-smash me. The doctor tries again and declares victory. But there is more smashing to be done. More films. Some debating whether one last picture should be taken. In the mean time, my face is still pressed up against the machine, my arms up in the air like I’m calling to the heavens. I’m like, “Um, hello?” I settle the argument. “Oh, why not. Let’s take one more film. We’re all here and dressed for the occasion.”

After I’m finally released from the machine, the technician tapes a fashionable, not to mention highly technical, Styrofoam cup over the needle sticking out of my boob. I ask her if there is a toy bin. After all that, I think I deserve a toy. She laughs and hands me two breast cancer pins. She then walks me over to the nuclear medicine section where I’m going to get a shot of radioactive blue dye in my boob. Does the fun never end? She drops me off, and a voice from around the partition asks me to lie down on the table and remove my gown from my right breast area. Okay. I’m used to being half naked in front of a bunch of people I don't know. I look up, and there is a gorgeous, built young man standing next to me. I swear he has a golden halo around his head. Must be the light. I’m mortified. My 49-year-old, flabby boob hanging out for all to see. Sheesh. He couldn’t be ugly and fat? Give a girl a break…just one…that’s all I ask. The directional needle doctor comes in, and I ask if he’s here to hurt me again. Unfortunately he is.  Luckily he freeze sprays around my nipple before he sticks me. It still hurts. A lot. He tells the young stud to rub my nipple area with a gauze pad to circulate the dye.  “I can do that,” I tell him, with my nicest smile. “No worries.” He might be able to see my flabby boobs, but he ain’t touchin ‘em.

My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 3

So the biopsy is over. We have to wait one torturous week for the results.  I say "we" because it's not just me waiting. Surprisingly, I’m not really worried. I'm only 49. Way, way too young to have cancer. So the hubs and I both ignore the nagging thoughts running through our heads and discuss going out to lunch before heading home.  I’m reluctant because I am wearing my “I wish I was skinny” underwear. Normally, I would not go anywhere unless I was wearing my “I know I’m fat underwear”. But that’s another story for another time.  I throw caution to the wind. We haven’t been to the Draft House in a long time.  Is it too early for a really stiff drink – or two?
As the week progresses, the hematoma gets harder, and I have this purple, red and yellow mass hanging from my chest. It used to resemble a twelve pound bowling ball. Now, it looks like I went ten rounds with Mike Tyson and the only thing he pummeled was my boob. It’s very sore, and I have to watch which shirts I wear to work because the necklines on some of them show the bruising.  People that may have noticed didn’t say anything, but I’m sure those that don’t know what is going on are wondering if I recently went ten rounds with Mike Tyson. One of my husband’s friends came to the house to visit and hugged me so hard, I thought the hematoma was going to burst. But he really didn’t know, and I appreciated the hug.

Friday of the big reveal rolls around, and I’m back to the beginning of My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 1. I hear “cancer”, burst into tears, and my mind shuts down.  The doctor talks about pre-op procedures, surgery, and radiation treatments. The one good thing I do remember him saying was “probably no chemotherapy.”  This is happening way too fast. But based on the preliminary test results, we apparently do not have time to wait. My cancer is aggressive, fast growing and a bunch of other technical terms that no person in their right mind would understand. And since I’m not in my right mind at the moment, Dr. P. could be speaking Mandarin Chinese to me and I would just shake my head and nod like I know what he’s saying. Before leaving the office, I’ve signed a couple of forms, and the surgery is scheduled. Wow.

Of course the minute I get home, I’m on the internet…researching cancer, lumpectomy, radiation, and all the other terms on the pathology report. Is breast cancer always just called breast cancer?  Is there a technical term for this blob of lotion growing in my boob?  I found this great website www.breastcare.com that explains everything so well. Good thing it’s in English. Not sure I’d still understand Mandarin Chinese since my mind has returned to a somewhat normal state. The Susan G. Komen website is informative, but I found myself going in circles clicking on all the links.  It talks about chemotherapy before radiation. Interesting.

I have so many people to call. It was tough telling my kids….probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to tell them. Most kids think their parents are invincible. My kids are so young. There are so many more things I want to experience with them. My husband had already told his boss that if he returned to work, we got great news. If he didn’t, we got not so great news.  So by the time we meet our friends for dinner (it’s Friday night), they know. The looks, the hugs, the shoulder rubbing…I appreciate it all, really, but it’s almost more than I could handle at the moment. I’m still in the WTF and “why me” mode.

The next Monday, I ask my co-workers to meeting me in my boss’s office. I tell them the news…surgery, radiation, hopefully back to work in two weeks.  At this point, no chemotherapy. There's tears, hugs, everything one would expect from a great bunch of people I spend more time with than my family. Everything will be fine. That’s my daily mantra. Everything will be fine. The days roll by. My boss and his wife buy me some Shea Butter. For the scars and skin after radiation they say. Hadn't thought about scars. More and more people - at work, friends, neighbors - learn about the blob of lotion. More tears. More hugs. I have some really great co-workers, friends and neighbors. So many people come to me with stories about their breast cancer. I had no idea. I maintain a stiff upper lip and recite the mantra, everything will be fine. I try to clean up my work desk a little bit so it doesn’t look like a homeless person lives in my cubicle. I pass on responsibility for some things to other people; things that can’t wait until I return. Everything will be fine.

Finding God in all Things

This is a reflection paper I wrote on 11/2/11 for my last college class at Regis University. I haven't perfected my new gift of patience, but I'm working on it!

I have breast cancer. I’ve known for almost three weeks. Surgery has already been scheduled and shortly after that, I will start radiation treatments. The situation is still somewhat surreal, and I keep asking myself, “Did the doctor really say malignant?” It was difficult telling my friends and family. The worst was telling my kids. Even though I tell them that cancer research and treatment have come a long way, I know what they are thinking. I’m thinking it.

I’ve lain awake many a night since that day, a million thoughts racing through my mind. Of course there’s always the first thought, “Why me?” Then there’s the inevitable second thought, “Why me, God?” I’ll admit, I’m not a regular church goer, but I do believe in God, and I commune with him in my own way. I pray daily for sick friends or relatives, people I don’t even know, and for the world to be at peace. Sometimes I ask for things. Like patience or knowledge or for God to give my daughter the strength and skills necessary to play a good game of soccer. I know the last one is a little silly, but goalkeepers need all the help they can get, even if it is divine intervention. Since my diagnosis, I’ve prayed for my doctors to have the wisdom and skill they need to help me get well. I’ve prayed for strength so I can beat this disease.  But I keep going back to the question, “Why me, God? You couldn’t just give me something I keep asking for? It seems to me it would be a lot less painful.”

It dawned on me today that although I have been very worried, I have also been much more calm than usual. Little things that would normally cause me to be quickly irritated – the computer freezing up, the printer jamming every time I try to print an envelope – aren’t really bothering me. Driving home from work, I find myself thinking the rude driver that just cut me off is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. I will still eventually arrive at my destination.

Suddenly, it hits me like a two ton boulder. Has God finally given me the patience that I’ve asked for all these years? I’m beginning to think he has. I didn’t really anticipate receiving it in the form of cancer, thank you very much. But God doesn’t always do things in the way that we anticipate, want, or even understand.  This will truly be one of the biggest challenges I have ever had to face. I believe God will be with me during this journey, because he tells me so: Genesis 21:22 ~ “God is with you in all that you do.”

My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 2

So where did I leave off?  Oh yes, I’m at my first appointment at the Breast Clinic. So I’m waiting for Dr. P., wearing one of those paper shirts, trying to cover up my Neiman Marcus boobs. At least I’m wearing deodorant.  I’m a little apprehensive about the mammo report but not seriously worried. I have a lot of skin tags and the smash-o-gram technician only marked one of them. So I’ve already decided that’s probably what’s showing up as an abnormality and this is a waste of everybody’s time. 

Dr. P. comes in and while he’s introducing himself, he opens my gown and starts feeling around on the girls. I’m like, “Well, nice to meet you, too.”  He remarks on the size and density of the girls. We chit chat back and forth about everything but the weather. Thank goodness, because chatting about the weather would have definitely been awkward.   I tell him that I have not felt a lump during self-exams, and he says “Due to your size and density, I don’t think you would ever feel a lump.” That’s the second time he’s remarked about my size and density.  I mull that over for a second.  Ding, ding, we have a winner. I knew it. He’s just confirmed what I've always suspected: I am carrying around two twelve pound bowling balls on my chest.  

Since I brought my smash-o-gram films with me, the assistant slaps them up on the viewer, and we all look at them for the first time together. It’s readily apparent, even to me, what abnormality the radiologist was indicating. And it’s definitely not a skin tag. Buried deep in the middle of my right breast, next to the pectoral muscle, is an odd shaped mass. He taps it with a pen and says yep, that’s it. There’s the reason for the concern. It doesn’t look threatening to me. Looks almost like a blob of skin lotion. OMG…my husband is right! He’s always telling me I’m going to turn into a bottle of skin lotion. Hey, I tell him, it’s dry here in the desert. My skin needs nourishment. But there’s the evidence! The conversion has already started! Seriously, though, wouldn’t that have been nice if it was actually true?

Instead, Dr. P. says we need to do a biopsy. He explains one part:  You’re going to lay on your stomach on a table with holes in it and your boobs will hang down into the holes. I almost start laughing out loud; the image in my head is pretty hilarious. I notice his assistant sort of gives him a funny look, but she doesn’t say anything.  I presume everything is okay then.  Based on the heinous torture my OBGYN has put me through the past couple of months, I figure this can’t be any worse.  Piece of cake.  So I stuff the girls back into their protective holder, make an appointment for the biopsy, and exit the building. I call my husband, tell him about the biopsy, and ask him if he would be there with me. Of course he will.

The biopsy day arrives, and I have to admit I was a little stressed. I’ve never had a biopsy before. I have no idea what to expect. To ease some of the stress, I picture myself lying face down on a table with my boobs hanging through some holes. This makes me chuckle. Of course, it turns out that the table isn’t quite like that.

The technician comes out and gets me. My husband remains in the waiting room. Probably a good thing. We walk into the room and there’s the table.  I can see now why Dr. P.’s assistant gave him a funny look when he was describing it. There’s only one hole. I get half naked again…becoming a habit…and put on the silly paper shirt. Open in the front of course. She directs me to lie down on the table and place the sick boob in the one and only hole.  Now, put your right arm down by your side, put your left arm above your head, and turn your head to the left.  Seriously? This contortionist act is even worse than the mammo machine. All of a sudden, I can feel her pulling on my boob. The one hanging down in the hole.  Then she starts smashing it. Wow. This is very uncomfortable. She says that she will do her very best to isolate the area (I think “blob of lotion), but it might take a couple of pulls and tugs and more smashing because it’s really buried.  In between the tugging and smashing, she’s using a computer to capture the images. After a couple of minutes, she says, “I have it. Don’t move.”  I tell her I think that would be nearly impossible so not to worry. She laughs and proceeds to tell me about one lady who did manage to escape from the machine. I’m thinking, well that’s nice but let’s get on with it. Finally she says, “I’ll go get the doctor.” I ask the obvious questions, “You mean he’s not here? I’m not going to have to wait like 15 minutes or anything am I?” Serious thoughts of torturous things I could do to the doctor with this hole and the metal smashing device below the table start running through my head. Thankfully she said he was just right outside.  Whew. There will be no reason to explain to a judge why I’m being charged with felonious assault.

Dr. P. and the technician come back into the room. Suddenly, I can feel some cold wet liquid being applied to the hanging boob – not in any way to be confused with a hanging chad - with a cotton swab. It’s just antiseptic I’m told. Dr. P. says he’s going to numb the area with a shot and it will feel somewhat like the kind you get when you go to the dentist. I hate the dentist. After you’re numb, he says, the computer guided needle will enter your breast and pluck a section of the offending tissue from the area. He says he hopes he can get a good sample because it’s really deep. I tell him good luck, because I’d hate to see what kind of fun is in store for me if he can’t get the sample.  He gives me the shot, which hurt just like when the dentist gives me one. Did I tell you that I hate the dentist? Almost immediately, I feel a sharp pinch.  I thought ouch, but I must have said it out loud.  “You can feel that?” he asks. I said “Well, yes. You really didn’t give the shot time to work. But don’t stop now. Let’s get this over with.”

After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only seconds, he’s done. And he’s gone. The technician un-smashes the hanging boob, cleans me up a little bit, then helps me sit up. I can’t help but observe all the blood on the towels under the hole in the table. She notices that I already have a huge hematoma forming under the incision area. Since the computer guided needle had to travel through so much dense tissue to reach the blob of lotion, she says, it was bound to happen. Well, she doesn’t really call it the “blob of lotion” but that’s how I’m thinking of it so that’s what I hear. She cleans me up some more, tapes over the incision area and says to leave the tape on for five days. I then watch her dump my tissue sample into the medical container and seal it up. Amazingly, it really did look like a blob of lotion. She then tapes this little bitty round ice bag to my boob and says “Don’t be concerned it your breast develops a huge bruise. You can get dressed now.” Well, this is easier said than done. The hanging boob does not want to go back into its protective holder. I finally manage to corral the girls - ouch - and head to the checkout to make an appointment. I have to wait an entire week for the results.   

My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 1

I heard the doctor say, “It’s malignant.”  It took about 30 seconds for my brain to register. I looked at my husband and burst into tears.  I barely heard anything he said after that. But this is the middle of my story. Let’s go back to the beginning.

In August 2010, I had my first ever mammogram. I was 48. I know what you’re thinking. Your first “smash-o-gram” (my friend Debbie’s technical term for a mammogram) at age 48? I know. I kept putting it off.  There is no history of cancer in my family, and I’d heard the horrible stories about how painful it is. And since I am so well endowed, the thought of someone smashing my boobs into pancakes just wasn’t high on my list of fun things to do. Anyway, I finally decided I couldn’t put it off any longer so I reluctantly made the appointment.  I dutifully showed up 15 minutes early to fill out the paperwork and pay the deductible. Personally, I question why I should have to pay someone to torture me, but that’s a whole other story.  I’m so nervous I’m sweating bullets, without deodorant, in Vegas, in August.  Las Vegas in August = surface of the sun. You get the picture. I suddenly realize I’ve also been talking to myself - out loud. Crazed, smelly woman at 6 o’clock. I’m positive the man sitting next to me wants to change seats but doesn’t have the nerve. Suddenly, I hear my name. Oops, too late to run.

I’m taken to a room with a huge machine. It has to be the offending boob smasher. I give it a dirty look. The tech tells me to disrobe from the waist up. It seems like every medical appointment ends up with me taking off some articles of clothing. Why is that?  Half naked now, the tech manhandles my boobs like we’re old friends. I don’t even know her name. Move this way. Place your arm down by your side. Twist your shoulder this way. Can you suck in your stomach some more? Wow, as if I wasn’t already humiliated. Positioned exactly how she wants me (I feel like I’m auditioning for a contortionist circus act), she runs behind the screen and shouts, ”don’t move”.  Two thoughts instantly pop into my head. 1) There’s no need to shout, you’re not smashing my ears and 2) Don’t move? Too bad eye rolling doesn’t come with sound.  Next thing I know, the machine is moving. I’m defiant now. Bring it on, I whisper. Gimme your best shot.  Several minutes of mammo-manipulation (that really should be a word), it’s over. Suddenly, I realize that it didn’t hurt. I’m confused. What was all the hoopla about? I leave the building, triumphant in the knowledge I just lived through my first smash-o-gram. I beat the machine!  The snail mail letter a couple weeks later states my mammogram results are normal. Whoop! Another fist pump.

August 2011, time for another bout with the boob smasher. Again, I’m not wearing deodorant (reference Vegas, August, surface of the sun above), but I’m not worried or sweating bullets or talking to myself so I don’t think I’m offending anybody this year. The routine is the same. Half naked. More manhandling by the tech. I still don’t know her name. Move this way. Suck in your stomach (sheesh). The tech runs behind the screen and yells, “don’t move.” Cue the eye rolling. All of a sudden, son-of-a-b, I’m in excruciating pain. I whimper and bite my lip. I will myself not to cry. This is not how I remembered it from last year. What the heck?! Thank goodness it doesn’t last long. I stuff the girls back into their protective holder and exit the building as fast as possible. No triumphant fist pumping this year. I search for pain reliever in my purse and dry swallow it. Wow. Now I know what all the hoopla is about.

A couple of weeks later, I receive a snail mail letter saying the mammography indicates an abnormal area of tissue in my right breast and to call for an appointment for another procedure. I call the number only to be told I can’t make an appointment without a referral. The question had to be asked, “Why does your letter say to call for an appointment if I can’t call for an appointment?” Silence. Finally an annoyed voice says to contact my doctor.  Um...just a thought...but if it’s so annoying, change your damn letter. So I call and make an appointment with my OBGYN. He's the one that guilted me into making my first smash-o-gram appointment. When I tell him why I’m there to see him, he’s just as confused as I am. He says, okay, we’ll just bypass them and send you to the Breast Care Clinic. Yippee skippy. Sounds like fun. NOT.

I make an appointment. The office and staff seem nice enough. Again I have to undress from the waist up. What is it with the half-naked medical appointments? Like those silly paper gowns that open in the front even fit right. Yeah, if you have what I like to call Wal-Mart boobs. All you well endowed women know what I mean. If a chick can walk into Wal-Mart, pick a bra made out of cute multi-color, multi-pattern fabric from the $6 bin, and buy it without trying it on, she has Wal-Mart boobs. My bras are not cute, have a triple letter designation and cost a fortune. I have Neiman Marcus boobs. Don't get me wrong. I'm not making fun...I'm jealous.

Now let me wander over to another story about the girls, as I affectionately call them. I’m not that attached to them. It’s hard to find shirts that fit right. Bras are extremely uncomfortable and expensive (reference Neiman Marcus comment above). They get in the way. In fact, they’re a pain. It’s like carrying around two 12 pound bowling balls on your chest. My husband seems to like them, but then again he doesn’t have to carry them around. The thought of cutting them off has crossed my mind. But on MY terms.