Jan – March 2020

Part 1: A tale of love and betrayal

I have always liked my boobs. Even when I was younger (and skinnier), I described my lady bits as “small but perfectly formed”.

I always, always have matching undies and I learnt how to make the most of my meagre offerings.

Then, I grew. And so did they. No longer small, they were now just “perfect”.

So, imagine my surprise when a routine breast check up discovered a dirty little lump. A 1cm black speck of imperfection.

And, as you do… Now I KNOW. I can feel it’s little darkness. My breastical hurts all the time. It feels about a kilogram heavier.

Off to the mammogram, I go. With my previously perfect pair and the bump.

“What’s it doing there?” I ask the boobie specialist.

“I think it’s cancer”, she replies. In the punch-you-in-the-face way only Germans can. I’d like to tell you I was brave, friends. But I was not. I cried like someone who just got told they have cancer. The poor German doctor, unused to such emotional displays, was quite out of her depth.

And then I go on holiday. Because fuck this shit.

Directly after holidays it’s biopsy time. The same poor Doctor greets me and immediately wishes she hadn’t asked me how I am. ’cause, imma gonna tell her.

Strangely, there are two good things about biopsies:

1 Local anaesthetic. As soon as I feel anything at all, I’m demanding more.

2 The fact that the Dr counts down 3…2…1….FIRE. The sound of the machine is just like a pop gun. So “fire” somehow makes me want to giggle.

And now we wait.

Part two