Welcome to my blog. I document my journey through breast cancer. Hope you feel inspired!



Here I am. Back at another doctor's appointment. Little do I know is this is just the beginning.

I sit in the waiting room alone waiting for my name to be called. A short, middle aged white woman walks out with blonde hair in a high ponytail and tie dye colored clogs that give her about 2 inches in height. She’s very chipper considering it’s so but I appreciate it. She directs me to go into a small changing room that is just outside of the waiting room. She instructs me to put on one of those disposable medical gowns and then points to the room across the hall where she would be waiting for me.

I realize once I’m undressed in just my underwear and this paper gown that opens in the front that I’m going to have to make a Ninja Warrior run for it across the hall if there’s anyone in the waiting room. Geez. This is such a set up.

(You must be thinking, what kinda Lean on Me ass hospital is she in? Not hood, just weird.)

I crack open the door and poke my head out. Whew. The coast is clear. I suck in my stomach and sprint across the hall. Maybe 15 steps. I close the door behind me and exhale as if I had just been chased by a serial killer.

There stands the Hippy Nurse as I’ve named her in my head. I immediately stare at her bright pink hair tie that looks like it's straight out of an episode of Full House. Interesting choice. She is behind a computer, ready to get this show on the road.

She comes over to me and asks about the bloody discharge. She asks if I can make it come out and stands there holding this thin, clear piece of glass that’s a little bit bigger than the size of a Lego. I give my boob a squeeze. Nothing. I try one more time. Still nothing. She asks if she can give it a try.

(I’m really starting to feel like a cow here.)

She gives it a squeeze. Sort of massaging and squeezing at the same time. (Um, what is happening?) Well whatever Hippy Nurse did has worked. She puts as much of it as she can get out on to that little piece of glass and carries it away.

Hippy Nurse comes back into the room and goes back behind that computer again. Whatever she’s doing is cranking up the machine that I’m about to shove my boobs inside. It’s warming up. Making noise. Turning on. All the things.

I’m still sitting in the chair next to the door. Ready to make another run for it. I think I’d rather face the serial killer.

She tells me to get up. (Up! Up! Up!)

“Is this going to hurt?” I ask.

She tells me that for some women it’s really, really painful and for some it’s just a little discomfort. Did she need to lead with the painful part?

Hippy Nurse directs me to get closer to the machine. “Closer. A little CLOSER.”

Well I’m right up on this shit now. Any closer and I'm going to have to climb on top of it.

There I stand, staring at these two openings of where my boobs are about to get smizashed.  With both hands she grabs each boob one at a time. Placing each one carefully inside of the machine as if she’s putting a baby chick in a cage.

“Ok, now kinda lean forward but push your lower half backward.”

(What? Oh, so just stick my ass in the air. Got it.)

At last, she’s got me where she wants me. She’s back behind the computer and is making the machine squeeze my poor size C titties in to crepes it seems.

Eh. This isn’t so bad. Uncomfortable but not horrible. I’d do it again.

Finally, she’s got em’ locked in.

“Ok, now don’t breathe while I take these photos or else we’ll have to keep doing it over again” she says.

(What the fuck)

There I am with my ass in the air; sucking in my gut and my breath. Only my boobs are being photographed but still.

15 or so minutes later, home girl has taken all the photos of these tig ol bitties at every angle possible.


Hippy Nurse tells me she will be right back and exits the room. About 5 or 10 minutes go by and she returns. In a calm, unsuspecting voice she tells me that they would like to take a closer look and that a doctor across the hall will examine me further.

(There go those knots in my stomach again.)

I walk in to this room and see a chair that looks like the hospital version of a recliner. They have me lay down on my side and they dim the lights. The doc puts this cold jelly on my breast and presses down on it with this scanner that looks like the one they use in the check out lines in Target. There’s a screen to the side that allows the doctors to see what’s inside of this big, bad, boob of mine.

The doctor isn’t saying anything but I can somehow sense that she has found something. Something is wrong. Plus I don’t think there was supposed to be a part 2 to this appointment. I should have left after my lovely time with Hippy Nurse.

The doc has now moved from scanning my boob to scanning my armpit. WHY is she scanning my armpit???

I ask her if everything is ok. She mumbles something back to me.

She continues her examination, only now she’s pressing it harder against my skin. Almost as if she wants to be positive of what she is seeing.

Finally, she pulls away the scanner. I can sense that she has her answer. She wipes off the jelly and tells me that I can sit up.

(Alright girl. Give it to me)

In the midst of all the medical jargon (that I hate) I hear that I have 4 masses. 3 in x quadrant under this, above that. Approximately x centimeters. Blah, blah, blah. And the 4th mass is in my armpit.

The next step will be for me to come back next week for a biopsy to see if the masses found are cancerous.

Holy shit. Biopsy = neeeeedlesssss and maybe breast cancer? (Ten.thousand.eye rolls)


Better together! Happy 2nd Anniversary!

Better together! Happy 2nd Anniversary!

Heeere we go!

Heeere we go!