I'm morbid

I confess. I read the obituaries every day. I hate it when people who read them daily say that they do so to ensure that they are not amongst those listed, and that's not why I do it. I do it because I have to. I've done this for as long as I can remember and, sometimes, I am very covert about indulging this little perversion when I am around others. I've even been in relationships (some long-ish term) with folks who never knew that I did this. I feel so sneaky.

In fact, this is how I found out that my friend, E, died about four years ago. I was just scanning the daily obit index, just like always, and there was her name - EVC. I even recall the initial feeling of disbelief - instead of looking at her name and thinking to myself Oh fuck. E died., it was more like Oh, that's weird. Someone with the exact same name as E died. Part of the denial step in the mourning process? Hell if I know. The obit itself was brief. Nobody had paid for the inclusion of a lovingly-written ode, complete with a smiling photo and a lengthy list of survivors - all named. Nope, just brief and to the point. Although the text never said as much, I knew instantly that she'd committed suicide.

I often notice the last names of folks with whom I went to high school. Most of the time, as I can tell by seeing their first name listed as a survivor, it's one of their parents. Other times I conclude that it must be a grandparent. It feels oddly intrusive and even too personal to be in the know with something like this.

About a month ago I saw the name of a fellow from high school. I didn't really know him in high school and I'm not even certain that I ever spoke to him. I remembered that he played football, that he was pretty large, his hair was blond and he was quiet and reserved. I don't really recall seeing him hanging out with anyone - he might have even been something of a loner...don't recall for sure. He worked as a construction worker and died at age 40, of sleep apnea. His survivors included both parents and a brother. I wondered if he died alone. I mean, really alone. I felt oddly sad for him when I read this.

I began to wonder what would happen if I died. Who would write my obituary and what would it say? Would my survivors pony up the dough for a lengthier and more personalized tribute? Would they include a photo of me and, if so, at what age? And who would see it? Would anyone from my past see my name and perhaps my photo and think of me - perhaps a thought with a memory attached? What about people who knew of me, but who never spoke to me, like people from high school for example?

My fascination doesn't end with the daily obits, though. Some five years ago or so, my friend, L, turned me on to Celebrity Death Beeper. CDB sends out a mass email blast to all of its subscribers whenever someone of note has passed away. And they are FAST. Seriously, it's as if they monitor the news wires constantly and report on a death as fast as any of the more reputable news providers. I swear I found out about the death of Anna Nicole Smith mere minutes after her passing.

In fact, CDB is how I learned of Julia Child's death. I was in Seattle, just beginning Librarian Action Figure School and saw that I had an email from CDB. Seeing Julia Child's name listed put me in a melancholy place. Since I was finished with classes for the day, I walked down to the local pub and put back a few in her honor. I thought of the joy that watching her cooking show brought me - remembering her adding more butter, dropping food on the ground and (in conjunction with the 10-second rule) throwing it back into the mix, sipping off of some sort of libation while cooking. I remembered her distinct voice, which made me laugh when I was a child. I remembered when my friend, David, met her ("She was tall," he said). I remembered when my friend David dreamed about her over Thanksgiving weekend. I miss my friend, David (who is still amongst the living - he just lives far away now).

And I miss Julia Child.

Raise your hand if you love your boobs!

You know how sometimes you stretch your upper body skyward, especially when you're sitting on the couch leaning backward over the curved arm and rockin' a nice curved arch in your back? And then you're feeling an awesome stretch in the top part of your chest so you pull your arms back down to place your hands on your chest, just above your fabulous titties, with your back remaining arched, and you feel the muscles in your chest stretching? And then you feel the lump on your right side where once there wasn't a lump?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

At first I thought I was imagining it, how could I possibly have a lump on my breast? I felt up my right side and then my left. And then I did it again. I did the tapping/kneading thing with my fingers that the doctor always does. I placed each hand exactly symmetrical from one another, making sure that they were in the exact same spot on each side, just to make sure that I was comparing an apple with an apple and an orange with an orange - well, or something like that.

Isn't it said that the definition of insane is 'doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result?'

I pulled my shirt off to make sure I was covering the area thoroughly. Holy shit, I could see the lump! That wasn't there last month.

Maybe I just pulled a muscle in yoga class. Or maybe my muscles on my right side had strengthened differently than those on my left. I am right handed, after all, and I carry cases of wine up and down flights of stairs at work.

"J, come take a look at this," I beckoned my lovely wife to come and check out my titties.

"Shit. What the fuck?"

"I know! What do you think I should do?" (Okay, I know this sounds completely idiotic now, but it was just what came out of my mouth at the time).

"Um, you need to call the doctor. And you can't procrastinate this one - I know you hate doctors, but this could be serious. Will you do it today?" I told her I would.

But when I called my doctor's office, they freaked my shit out even more. After telling me that they want to see me within three days, they told me that my doctor was on vacation and I'd have to see a different doctor. Have I mentioned that I hate doctors? Since the urgency of this visit was non-negotiable, I conceded to a visit with a different doctor, provided it was a female. Then the nurse on the phone asked me to describe the lump.

"Well, it's above my breast and it's slightly elevated." Apparently this was an inadequate answer, because she seemed a little bit exasperated and asked me how big it was.

"Um, I'm not really sure. You mean you want me to measure it?" Alright, I'm really not this dumb, but somehow idiotic things kept coming out of my mouth that day. I think the nurse thought I was being an ass, because it seemed like she was losing patience with me.

"Is it the size of a marble? or a golf ball? or an orange?" Now here I was really perplexed - it was supposed to be globe-shaped? Mine was more akin to the pit of a mango.

"I guess it's about one inch wide by about two or so inches long. It doesn't really resemble any of the objects you mentioned."

"Is there any blood or pus coming from the area?"

"No." Suddenly I was feeling like I was crying wolf, but I had a lapdog on my hands. My stats just weren't measuring up to her expectations. She scheduled me an appointment for a couple of days later.

I was a nervous wreck for those two days.

In the meantime, I accompanied J to an OB/Gyn visit the following day - we needed a greenlight in our efforts to become pregnant. I was caught by surprise when I encountered a lump in my throat while J was having a breast exam. That throat-lump was in between the size of a marble and the size of a golf ball. Was I envious of her lumpless breasts? Were the possible ramifications of my pending visit just hitting me? I was scared.

I asked J to come with me to my visit with the-doctor-who-wasn't-mine.

In walked a stereotypically attractive 30-something woman who didn't smile and spoke very quietly. She seemed like she was strung out on Valium. She seemed apprehensive about touching my breasts and her hands were a little bit cold - not unlike her demeanor. She seemed unconcerned and suggested that the lump was a result of too much coffee or too much stress and that it would probably go away after I had my period. She told me to set up an appointment with my regular doc for three weeks later.

It was a long-ass three weeks before I showed up at Kaiser for my appointment with my usual doc, who isn't afraid to touch lesbian breasts.

"Oh, you didn't get the message?" the receptionist asked me.

"Message?"

"We called you yesterday and left you a message that Dr. D had an emergency and had to cancel all of her appointments for today."

"Oh. May I reschedule?"

"Sure, let's see...Dr. D can see you in February of 2008 - what time is good for you?" Okay, I'm exaggerating a little bit, but she wasn't able to get me in that week. Or the next. The receptionist was able to get me in the next morning with a nurse practitioner, Maggie Bunn. Now, I don't know why I have an issue with nurse practitioners - K sees an NP and she's awesome, better than most docs I've been to...I guess I worry that they might not catch something a doc would catch or that their medical advice might not be as thorough or accurate. This has never been my experience - I have no idea where I acquired this bias. I guess I watch too much ER or something.

Maggie Bunn turned out to be fantastic. She was gentle and comfortable with me and very forthcoming. She told me that my lump had the qualities of being benign, but she wanted to be absolutely certain and had me set up an appointment with mammography and one with a breast surgeon. As she gave me the contact info for both departments, she gave me some additional info, off the record.

"When you make an appointment with the breast surgeon, be sure to insist on the woman doctor - she's wonderful. There is also a man and, well, he's extremely arrogant and all I can really say is that I strongly urge you to see the woman, Dr. Xy - even if you have to wait longer for an appointment."

I got the picture.

When I called for my appointment with Dr. Xy, the receptionist told me that she could get me in sooner with Dr. Xx. I told her no, that I was much more comfortable with a woman doctor and that I didn't mind waiting longer to see Dr. Xy.

"Dr. Xx is a really good doctor - he'll be gentle." The receptionist was really jonesin' for me to concede. I wouldn't.

"No, I'd really prefer to see Dr. Xy." Was this chick gonna power-struggle with me?

"Well, may I ask why?" Now, obviously I wasn't going to tell her that Maggie Bunn told me to insist on Dr. Xy. But, man, this woman was relentless. I decided to go for a lighthearted angle.

"You see, it's like this: I wouldn't take my car to a mechanic who's never owned a car before..." This is my stock explanation for those who ask why I insist on a female gynecologist.

"Dr. Xx has a wife and a daughter and a mother and they all have breasts." OMG, did she really just say that? "He knows what he's doing and he's a really good doctor."

Well, shit. Then why is she trying to coerce me to schedule an appointment with him, rather than honoring my first choice?

"Look," she didn't know this, but she picked the wrong chick to intimidate, "I was sexually assaulted by a man. I do NOT want a man touching my breasts. Can you please respect that and make an appointment with Dr. Xy, as I originally requested?"

She couldn't argue with that. I couldn't believe I'd just said that out loud. And to a complete stranger. At least I got her to stop goading me.

Before my scheduled appointment with Dr. Xy, I was required to have a mammogram. The tech who was in charge of squishing the hell out of my boobs was very cool - she chatted me up and complimented me on my tattoos. The doctor who reviewed my mammography pics concluded that I should have an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech was somehow under the impression that I was a complete idiot and condescendingly informed me that, "most women don't know this, but breasts are asymmetrical."

"Yeah, thanks, I knew that." Was I supposed to, upon noticing that I had a lump, just look down and remind myself that bodies are assymmetrical and go on with my business? Again, I was made to feel as though I were making a mountain out of a molehill.

"Well, it looks like you just have a benign mass of tissue here. Nothing to worry about. I'll have the doctor come in here and talk with you."

Five minutes later, a woman in a white coat breezed into the room. "Hi, I'm Dr. Zippy. All I see here is a benign mass of tissue. Do you have any questions?"

She took my silence to mean 'no' and bid me farewell. She was in and out in less than a minute.

So it appears that I do not have breast cancer. I'll continue my monthly self-exams and throw in the occasional couch-arm stretch for good measure. I don't like that the medical media scares the bejeezus out of women, urging them to worry the second anything seems amiss with the girls. But then when we do, we're treated as though we're freaking out over nothing.

Marbles, golf balls, oranges, mango pits - they all deserve attention. And don't let anyone goad you into believing otherwise.