From the time of its discovery over a year ago the fact that there is a lump occupying my right breast has been something I've come to accept. Its mere presence has been forgotten and then, upon showering or summat, remembered again. Never something that plagues my mind so to speak, nothing I've lost any sleep over or particularly fretted; it's just been there. "There we go, scrub the armpit and moving on to the chest... what's this? Lumpy! There you are, you old scoundrel - how the devil are you? Still located directly behind the nipple, I see... or feel, rather. Righto, then, off to loofa tummy now..."
But now as I grow nearer to parting with it I've built up a great deal of disdain for the silent intruder. As if suddenly I view it as a personal attack on my femininity. The realization that one of the things that society, not to mention my own observations in the difference between male and female anatomy, have made sure I appreciate as the most externally obvious example of my womanhood - my breasts - will have to be operated upon and possibly altered is now entirely offensive. How dare you, uninvited mass, take up residence in a place specifically assigned to and identified by my gender.
The surgery itself has become something I'm dreading and will be participating in with the greatest of hesitance and legal amount of drugs possible. Voicing my concerns on the matter is met with understanding nods, reassuring advice, and other gestures meant to ease the mind which I'm so horribly inexperienced with receiving they nearly have the opposite effect. Just not used to people relating to my fears and attempting to comfort me about them; most, you see see, are illogical to my peers and often are hard for another individual to fully grasp. Explaining social anxiety, for instance, to someone who has never hidden in a bathroom stall merely to avoid the interaction that having lab partners in Chemistry implies is more often than not a lost cause. "So, yeah? It's alright that I'm frightened of this, then? What about the overfriendly cashier in the gas station - be afraid of 'im? No? Got it. Being slit open with a scalpel while unconscious is an acceptable fear, Bob the checkout guy isn't. Check and check."
Still, though, I'm going to inquire if I may have the lump to preserve in a jar once removed. For posterity, you know. I need a good conversation starter to keep on the coffee table. Also I've set a goal to see if I can't get my doctor, the flamboyantly gay Dr. Glass, to admit that he's gon' cut a bitch.
I'm scheduled to go under tomorrow, Wednesday at 10am. Then later that day I'm to have the surgery. Doh!