If I hear, one more time, it’s probably nothing, I think I will throw up. I know that, on the contrary, I don’t want people freaking out, like, “Oh my God! She’s gonna die!” But put yourself in my position, staring down a lump in your 16-year-old daughter’s breast. Are you really thinking, “It’s probably nothing.” Or are you thinking, “Fuck you, lump.”
‘Cause that what I’m thinking. Fuck you, lump.
I sat there, watching as the ultrasound tech slowly maneuvered around my daughter’s skin and there it was. I realize it was magnified, but until we know for sure, that dark mass on the screen has all the power. We wait for it to be determined to be the big, bad C, or something less than that: Fibroadenoma. Which is basically a benign growth that is tumor-like, but not a tumor. (Insert Arnie joke here: “It’s not a tooma.” Hey, I can still joke, right?)
But that isn’t the point of this. The point of this is that I hate that fucking lump. Who does it think it is, making residence in *my* daughter’s body? I swear to God, if it is the big C, I will fucking obliterate it. I will make it wish it never grew. Because she is 16 fucking years old and the last thing she should worry about is having a lump biopsied 10 days before she starts school.
I am angry with my family history. I am angry with disease, because it has no respect for age.
I know, before you go there, that it is probably nothing. But stare down the barrel at that lump on the screen. You’d think it, too.
Fuck cancer. And go to hell, lump. You don’t have any place in her body or in our life. And you can quote me on that.