Episode 21: Breast Intentions
Episode 21: Breast Intentions
Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"
I have to admit, my boobs have always been a big part of my life. Literally. They showed up late — I was fifteen (kind of apropos for me) but once they appeared they almost instantly had a personality all their own. You know how it is. (Well, if you've ever had double D's you do.) The boys gawk at you. The men whistle. Your friends say they're jealous but are secretly relieved they can go breezy and braless. (In the seventies, the cute sundress, no bra look was really in, remember?) Of course these days, Oprah devotes entire hours of television to how important a perfectly fitted brassiere truly is. (I always knew this. But I never had a syndicated television talk show to help me preach that particular gospel.) I am sure, however, there are many well-endowed women who are fully indebted to Oprah for getting this important information across. I myself have been known to run out and purchase the Oprah bra of the moment, and let me tell you — the fit (when done by a proper bra fitter — don't forget that part!) is always spectacular.
I know I have good boobs. I had good boobs when I was a teenager, when I was in college, when I had a breast reduction (double D's, remember) and I've had them since. They've almost never failed me. My boyfriends always liked them and so did I. Size, shape, the whole nine yards. (Jeffrey was perhaps the exception. This might make one wonder further about our relationship. He always said he wished I'd left them bigger, as if a C-cup wasn't big enough. This is of course metaphoric on a number of levels. I never got a good look at any of his prostitutes except for my Super Fan — she had whoppers — but I'm pretty sure he was getting some gazangas when he hired them.)
Anyway, up until recently, my boobs had almost never failed me. I mean, they've had their moments. Cysts that needed to be removed, some scars (the reduction, natch), the indignity of the maternity ward lactation nazis who insisted I could breast feed even though my milk ducts were entirely gone. (They appealed to my fragile state of mind by using this horrifying contraption to try and pump out milk where there was none. It made this terrible sucking sound — a cross between Darth Vader breathing and that instrument the dentists use. Regardless, I endured the pain. Jeffrey, always up for "wimp of the year," fainted and hit his head on a bedpan that a forgetful nurse had left sitting near the toilet.)
All was good in boob land until last week. Long story short, I found a lump. I found this lump not in the shower, or doing any kind of breast exam, although I absolutely do them. (Breast cancer in the family, bad genetics, blah blah blah.) Anyway, I found it because I was buying a sexy, new bra — La Perla, I will admit — in anticipation of, well, you know what. The HBPD and I have been hanging out a lot lately. I am therefore highly optimistic on the sex front. Indeed, Annabelle was right about that Prada sweater she made me wear on our first sushi inspired "date." It was cut just low enough to be suggestive but not so low that it screamed "desperate." Regardless of how horny and hormonal I may or may not be, that was and is important.
(I need to point something out here. I am not a label whore. It may seem that I am, but I am a big believer in the Loehman's of it all. Well, except for the skanky communal dressing room. I hate those. I have a feeling that women dress for the dressing room, if you know what I mean. Which seems pretty ridiculous, to trot out your best lingerie for that frenzied, bargain-hunting, Sapphic-like occasion. Unless, I suppose, the poor lingerie has nowhere else to go. Which, on the other hand, I completely understand.)
To make a short story shorter, I found the lump in the dressing room at Loehman's. Seriously. That in itself is tragic in that it has kind of ruined Loehman's for me. (I had been so excited to find they were carrying La Perla. It might be decades old La Perla, I have no idea, but La Perla it certainly was.) I was slipping the lacy bra cups around my boobs and you know, it's La Perla, so the cups are more like half-cups (or quarter cups, like demi-tasse at the most, I'd say) and so I'm kind of maneuvering the boobage and pressing it into where it is supposed to go (all I ask is that the nipple be covered, and I'm thinking, is that too much to want, even if the bra is reduced from like one hundred thirty to forty-five dollars?) and as I'm pressing the boob in and rearranging and thinking, huh, this actually does take ten years off my figure (that's exactly what Oprah says a good bra will do) I find the lump.
Okay, this is weird, I'm thinking. Another cyst, maybe? I look around, because there are other women in there and then I kind of hunch over and start feeling and I know immediately this isn't the same as any cyst I've had before. It's really small and hard like the head of a pin or the tip of a pencil and my stomach drops immediately.
It's a weird thing to be in a woman's dressing room when you find a lump in your breast. Especially when you are in a dressing room with a number of other naked chicks and you are kind of assessing their boobs against yours. You know, at one point you're thinking, hey, my boobs — not so bad (at least until you notice the Sports Illustrated-like wannabe model who is prancing around stark naked, the little show-off) but in general, you're thinking, okay, I can handle this menopausal, low-estrogen thing because my boobs are still pretty righteous. But then you find this lump and all you see are a bunch of apparently healthy boobs when you're pretty sure yours are ravaged by some kind of terrible disease.
Well, I exaggerate slightly. I am slightly prone to hysteria in these kinds of situations. You know, the kids, the ex-husband, I tend to go to the bad place first, because, well — because as we all know, I have been to some other bad places. So first thing I do is call Annabelle and she says, don't worry, just go check it out. (I'll speed through this part. Suffice it to say that I had a date with HBPD that night and I called to cancel. I could hear he was bummed out by his voice and I'm also pretty sure that my lame excuse about having to help Mr. Handsome hunt for fireflies for a school science project didn't go over so well.) I'm a lousy liar, but the HBPD covered pretty nicely and he said he'd keep the jet ski in tip top shape (he was going to take me for a ride) until I was done hunting insects and I should just let him know when I was available. Need I remind you, there are no fireflies in southern California. The HBPD is no dummy, but he didn't say a word.
Ouch. I could hear the disappointment in his voice but obviously, I had more important things on my mind, and after a visit to the breast surgeon who had previously removed my cysts I suddenly found myself about to have an MRI.
Now here's the thing about the MRI. My doctor says it will see things that no mammogram or ultrasound will. This can be a very helpful tool. Sometimes, however (like yours truly), it sees things that aren't there. This vaguely inept psychic ability is not necessarily reassuring for someone like me, but at this point, what else can I do.
So I'm sitting in the waiting room. I need to pee about ten times. I am positive that everyone must think I am there for some kind of bladder malfunction, given the number of times I am in the restroom. Or else I have a severe case of hand-washing OCD. (Something else I may have picked up from Jeffrey. The rest of him may have been dirty, but his hands were very, very clean.) Anyhoo (and I say this without my usual verve) Annabelle had offered to come with me but I told her I was fine (I was turning into an excellent lie teller this week) when clearly I wasn't fine at all. Instead, I find myself texting the HBPD from my bedazzled iphone. "Hi," I write. "How r u?"
It's only a couple of minutes before he writes back. "Good. How were the fireflies? Did they lite up ur life?" I have to think for a minute to realize that he is referring to my other lie, the date-canceling one and just before I am about to text back, "U lite up my life, actually," I am called into the room. (Perhaps it is better that this wayward message was intercepted. I am not sure irony translates on a bedazzled cell phone.)
Anyway, there I am with an IV shoved into my arm because there is dye involved in this test (I of course, think "die" because I am a moron and should have brought someone with me to take the edge off the panic or at the very least an Ambien should have been part of the equation) and the next thing you know I am lying face down on a table with my boobs hanging down through these big round holes.
Now, I might point out here that the technician is a man. And though I have never had a problem taking my shirt off in front of a man before, suddenly, this seems highly inappropriate. I consider asking if there is a woman anywhere around but this too seems really wrong, like I should just keep my estrogen-starved self quiet and get this whole procedure over with as fast as possible. It suddenly dawns on me that this poor bastard must see more boobage than every Loehman's dressing room combined. And yet, he seems completely unphased. A boob is a boob is a boob.
The man (if he has a name, I can't remember it) explains the whole procedure to me and then, just as it is about to start I hear my cell phone ring tone go off. (The National Anthem, still. Note to self: Change It.) I realize, the HBPD must have texted me back! And then I start to panic. Did I send that message after all?! Still lying on my stomach I wave the technician over. "Um...that's my phone," I say to him. "I must have left it in my pants." He looks at me, horrified. "You brought your phone in here?!" "Well, my kids are home from school with strep throat..." I lie. (I am getting really good at this lying thing.) "Maybe I should just check and see if they're okay?" The technician looks at me. He is not happy. In fact, I am pretty sure I am ruining his day. "I need to remove your cell phone, immediately, ma'am." I look up at him, about to plead one more time (in my head I have convinced myself that if I read the HBPD's text, that this, the whole procedure, life, the future, whether they have my favorite grapefruit popsicles in stock at Whole Foods, it will all turn out okay) but the technician glares. "I am not playing games, ma'am. This machine is a very powerful magnet. I'm taking that phone." And he does just that.
Well, the test is rough. I tried to joke around with the guy but he'd have none of it and just as I was saying, "I used to scoop ice cream and now I can't eat it, bet boobs are like that for you," he pushes some button and the table I'm lying on slides into this incredibly narrow tube. It is dark inside, and really loud — the magnets sound like power drills banging against cement — cement that's in your head. You aren't allowed to move, or turn your neck or practically even breathe. I try and think of things that are relaxing - the ocean, chocolate, the HBPD (bad idea, just thinking about him makes my heart race) but every time I decide I am going to be able to get through this the head drilling starts up again and I want to cry. (I know, I sound like a baby. It's not the test that's so bad, really. It's the fear and the fact that my kids don't really have a father — see: Jeffrey's past exploits. Don't get me started on that one.)
Anyway, eventually they shoot the dye into your arm (you get this weird, cold rush, like you're being flooded with icey soda) and then there's more banging and then it's over. I call out, "Um...time for snacks?" No one answers (big surprise) but the table slides out of the tube and then the technician dude holds up this blanket so I can get off without him seeing anything but I'm absolutely positive I catch him peeking, the little perv. "Free look, if you want, cheaper than porn," I say merrily but he just glares at me, says something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "Everyone's a comedian" and hands me back my phone.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough. The minute I was dressed and in the car I look at the phone. My heart sinks. The text wasn't from the HBPD after all. It was from Annabelle, just checking to see how I was doing. For a moment I feel a little despondent. No good reason, really. As usual after a medical test, all the faces were inscrutable so I walked away not knowing anything at all. But then I think, hell, check it out. The perv technician was scoping out my boobs. Maybe, just maybe they do stand out both literally and figuratively. And that makes me laugh.
Suddenly, my phone rings. I pick it up. "I'm fine," I say, expecting Annabelle, not even looking at the number. "Well, good," I hear, "I don't want you to think I'm a stalker or anything but I was hoping we could reschedule. You know, fireflies and all." I catch my breath. It's him. I want to jump up and down (more weird-ass teenage behavior here) but instead I say, "I've never had a stalker. That's cool." He laughs. "I'm a pretty good firefly catcher, myself, you know." "Really?" I giggle. (Pathetic reaction.) "Uh-huh," he says, in this really sexy voice. "Used to do it all the time with my brother back East when we were kids."
I take a beat. "Well, I have to tell you something." I wrinkle my nose. (Something I do when I'm anxious. Suddenly the MRI ordeal seems a million miles away.) "I was lying about the fireflies," I say. "I had something else to do." The HBPD pauses. "I thought so." And then there's silence. I bite my lip. (Something else anxiety-related.) "Don't you want to know what it was?" I ask him. "Not really," he says, calmly. "I mean, if you want to tell me, it's fine. And if you don't, that's fine too."
Okay, I have to say, I wished at that moment he was standing right there. Because I would have liked to tell him the truth. But I wasn't going to tell him, not over the phone and besides, all of this was probably nothing. Just another "day in the life," if you know what I mean. "Not that important," I say. "Well, I'm glad," he answers." And then he adds, chuckling, "I have to tell you I had this dream that you had to choose between me and Brad Pitt." "Who did I choose?" I ask, suddenly very interested. "Well, of course you chose me."
And here is where I realized something. It was like an a-ha moment — like after a crisis when suddenly everything becomes clear. This guy was on my side. He was supporting me — for lack of a better metaphor — like a really good bra. No, better than that, because he was holding up the whole wacky package, warts and all. (Not that I'm saying I need to be supported, or anything. But who doesn't like a little pick me up once in a while?) "Esme, are you still there?" "Is that you, Brad?" I say, happily. And then, because he's my kind of guy and gets my sense of humor (or lack thereof) the HBPD laughs.
Oh — by the way, I meant to tell you, I bought that sexy La Perla from Loehman's. I mean, the price was reduced by more than half, remember? And you know, I suspected I might need it someday. If I was really lucky my C-cup boobs would need it really soon. Plus I saw the symbolism of it all. Sometimes there's real strength in a piece of well-fitted, supportive lingerie.
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