You know know in movies when a character is told some sort of life changing information - reading the telegram that tells them Jimmy didn’t make it back from ‘Nam/Emma Thompson opening the Joni Mitchell CD realizing Alan Rickman is a cheater/ or any movie where the character is told they are sick or are dying….the camera pushes in so that the audience can see their face. Really see their face - drink in the recognition that from this exact moment, everything changes. The chin quivers. The eyes fill with tears. Maybe they angrily wipe them away, refusing to believe the truth, the change. Or maybe the character gives in (I see you Emma) and breaks into a million little pieces. Quickly trying to put themselves back together for the sake of everyone else, but knowing it’ll never * quite * fit back together the same way again. And because I base all my life lessons and human reactions off of pop culture, I assumed that if I was confronted with some sort of CAPITAL “L” LIFE-CHANGING news, I too would have the camera push into my face and show the world the tragedy unfolding inside of me. Only, that’s not what happened when I was told I had cancer. I responded with a chipper, “Ok” , like that fucking Pete Davidson character. There was no emotion. No quivering chin or gulping of air while the guttural sobs come. Nope! Nary a tear. I felt some anxiety here and there along the way, but the fucking weeping and emotional response wouldn’t come…..until The Pioneer Woman was able to help me blow off some emotional steam.

A few months ago, having been recently freed from the shackles of work, hyper focused on ME (!), with days full of boxing and my newly acquired obsession of learning Finnish, I had what you might call a bit of a “French Press disaster”. I’m not sure why I’m using quotes as it was actually a disaster, not quite the Hindenburg - maybe closer to the time The Dave Matthews Band tour bus dumped raw sewage onto a boat under the bridge below them - but not a good situation any way you slice it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter how many fucking years I’ve used a French press for coffee, ya girl will never, ever, ever, grind the fucking beans to the right consistency. The coffee is either too thick, too watery or, the press gets all out of whack because of said grinds, and then it ends up creating too much pressure, which makes its impossible to press-down. So, instead of trying to figure out where I was going wrong with the process, I said “fuck it “ and gave up on ever safely making coffee that tasted good. Which meant that when I encountered the ”too much pressure” issue, I would just put my full weight onto the press and FUCKIN’ P U S H. As you can imagine, this is not an intelligent plan by any means. But I’ve been committed to it for a long while now and if ya girl is good at anything, it’s doubling down on bad ideas and maybe not so safe behavior.

I did learn some tricks to minimize collateral damage tho ( or so I thought). One time I burned my forearm real, real good and realized it was important to wrap the top of the French press seal to minimize the explosion. I ruined a lot of dishtowels, but it kinda worked at containing the damage. I need to be very clear - this method did not produce “good coffee”, but when you’re stubborn and have a lack of patience, dealing with a coffee pressure cooker yielding shit results is honestly par for the course. Anyway, I’ve had multiple burns and accidents since the big forearm burn, but then came the disaster that started this whole long journey, a trip that somehow winds up on the windswept prairies of Northern Oklahoma, on the ranch of one Mrs. Ree “The Pioneer Woman” Drummond. Rock bottoms come in all shapes and sizes, my friends.

On the day of this particular disaster, it was a very sunny spring morning and I had just come back from two hours with my boxing coach - which meant I was cranky, sore and soaking wet (somewhere in my late 30s I started sweating HARD when I worked out and its a wild look - real Swamp Thing vibes. Fully drenched and hot pink from head to toe.) and was in desperate need of java. I had learned the hard way that if I had coffee prior to my sessions, there was a solid chance I’d barf (probably on my coach who is a former pro-boxer) when sparring. Safety first, in all things but coffee making. Anyway. I did my normal routine, which meant I just haphazardly ground beans, put them into the press, poured in boiling hot water, started to plunge and of course realized there was a pressure issue. Because there was always a pressure issue. And on this fateful day, instead of using the tried and true “dish towel” safety method, I was riled up from the blood lust and felt extremely powerful. So I put the press in the sink and violently pushed down with all my might….you’re not going to be surprised to know that I created a Mt Vesuvius sitch and my right tit was Pompeii. Instead of the normal 360 degree explosion, for some reason (Divine Intervention I’m assuming) - the boiling water and molten coffee ground mixture shot out of the spout directly onto my right breast. Because I was so sweaty, the ground concoction hitting my sports bra created a napalm type scenario and I hooted, hollered and howled and ripped my sports bra off (which us ladies know is a FEAT ) and saw a big old burn mark on my bare breast. Breasts are tender, sensitive beings - so I will definitely say, 10/10 do not recommend burning your boob with coffee, but what can you do. Since life is a highway and no one has time to tend to tit burns when Finnish class awaits and coffee calamities™ are a regular occurrence, I went about my life. Until a few weeks later, after having worked myself into an absolute lather thinking I had skin cancer. Because of COURSE I’d find out that I have cancer when I was just trying to live my best life ya know? Like, things don’t go “right” for me on the regular, so I’m always assuming disaster is lurking just around the bend. And since I’ve fried myself to a crisp more times than I care to recall, I assumed that would be the thing to take me out. But, fate is funny like that, and it wasn’t skin cancer, the moles were normal, but the Dermatologist did take a peek at my breast and asked if I wanted some ointment to keep that French press burn from scarring. Sure, of course - gotta keep the breasts tight and right because I’ve got a trip to Finland planned and wanna make sure they’re looking good for sauna culture! Anyway, when I got home and started rubbing the ointment on my breast, I felt a lump. I assumed it was something to do with the burn and would go away once the skin started healing…but of course, it didn’t. So I went to see my OBGYN, who brushed off the lump off as scar tissue, but of course it wasn't. So mammograms and ultrasounds were ordered. And you don’t have to be fucking Colombo to figure out something is amiss when your nurse has zero chill and keeps saying a little too lightly/in too high of a pitch, “just going to pop over real quickly to chat with the radiologist” each time she took an image with the ultrasound.

And thus began a litany of tests. First came the breast biopsies - which aren’t horrible, but let me tell you something that medical professionals won’t - the device they use to do the breast biopsy sounds like, and very much has the sensation of, someone using a 3-Hole punch on your tit. Imagine punching holes in your knocker so it could be looped into a Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper. That’s the overall vibe. Not a huge fan, tbh. Of course while I was waiting for those biopsy results to come back, I did some late night sleuthing on my medical portal and happened to scroll to the veeeeeeeery end of the radiology report (do not give me access to this shit if you don’t want me googling the FUCK out of every line) and spied this message: “BI-RADS 5 SUSPECTED MALIGNANCY”. I immediately looked it up and saw that it meant there was a 95% chance of it being cancer, and let’s be fucking honest, as someone not exactly known for good luck, I knew then and there that I had Breast Cancer. And sure enough, I did.

Because my radiologist was very much like, “its cancer, its early you’ll be fine there’s nothing to worry about”, (pretty sure that’s the actual conversation she had with me, if not shorter), I shrugged it off. I didn’t cry. I didn’t have that feeling where the air is sucked out of the room. Or that realization that everything would be a little different. I’ve honestly had much more emotional and angrier reactions to my bosses coffee order being wrong. Sure it was a bummer, but nothing to worry about. I just went into assistant mode. I needed to get appointments set and logistics handled and this just felt like a hiccup but nothing to really derail the train. I made a few calls to friends just to let them know what was happening, but the reality was, it was no big deal in the grand scheme of things - we’ve had friends who have had the worst of it with cancer, and it was a heartbreaking thing to know how much they (and their families) suffered. That wouldn’t be me. I may not be the luckiest, but I was going to be ok. It’s early. No room for emotion, you know. People have it worse. So I made some jokes, kept it light and plowed forward with more tests. And also, it’s probably important to note that I tend to be a little…..reserved…when it comes with emotions. Ice queen. Hardhearted. Stoic. So this was very on brand for me - but even so, just in case you find yourself in this situation, not feeling things like worry or fear or sadness, or whatever, can inadvertently freak people out. Especially people who care about you. It’s really unnerving. So, maybe fake a little tear or fear here and there for your friends. Trust me it’ll make both of you feel better.

Anyway, much like my brain, my breasts are also incredibly dense (zing! try the meatloaf its fantastic!) - so the only way they could see what was happening in the old gals was to do an MRI. Let me tell you a little something about breast MRIs…..so, you know how in a normal MRI situation they have you on your back and then you get slowly sucked into the machine head-first? Well for breast MRIs you are face down, ass up. But wait, it gets better, your gown is obviously open to the front, so you crawl onto the gurney and kneel, then open the robe, facing the window into the little control booth area filled with Radiologists, and then you have to sort of shimmy your body down so that your tits fall through these two open holes on the MRI gurney thing. Just face down with the gals hanging fucking loose - swaying like pendulums in the breeze. I would say, mortification level 8 just based on getting in and out of that position alone. 10 when you view the images and realize how much those girls were HANGING.

Those results said more shit in the tit, so another 3-Hole trapper keeper showdown on my other breast and then an MRI guided biopsy - which I’m 99% certain was designed by a shop class full of preteen boys. Much like the 1st MRI, you’re face down, ass up in the machine - however, after say, 15 minutes, they bring you out of the tube but you CANNOT MOVE A MUSCLE because they’re doing a biopsy all based off the calculations taken in the machine. So the gurney thing is out, you’re face down with your one sick tit hanging loose through that hole below you, and then, I am not making this up, the doctors wheel UNDER you like they’re at fucking Jiffy Lube to do the biopsy while you are above them. I’m not kidding. I’m surprised I didn’t hear the ding of the bell that cars make when they roll over the little cords. So they are under you, I’m assuming in a snazzy little jumpsuit from Madewell, wiping their brow w a dirty bandana, giving your jugs pokes and jabs and then back into the tube you go! But DO NOT MOVE!!! And then you’re hearing over the PA system that “you’re breathing too heavy its making your breast move”…sorry I’ve got world class knockers that heave like a romance novel character, Doc. SUE ME! Also, a fun thing that happened was that they use a vacuum sounding thing for that biopsy over the 3-hole punch when you’re doing the MRI, which is much better for the most part, except that they hit a spot where the lidocane hadn’t numbed and I finally realized how a cat can jump straight up in the air - my body almost levitated off the table like I was possessed, but was kept in place by a nurse’s vice grip. After about an hour, the whole process is over and because I tend to bleed a bit, I then get to sit with the nurse &/or doctor’s hand on my breast for a solid 5-10 min applying pressure. Super chill. Not awkward, and much like an oil change when you’re a woman, VERY EXPENSIVE.

While this was happening I also engaged in speed dating oncologists. I chose from three doctors, two who were incredible and one where I made a Physicians Assistant cry and the Surgeon seriously rethink her career and then was sent home with a prescription for 5 deep-tissue massages because “I seemed tense”. I’m not kidding. Look, I’m fairly even keel - I know I have a hard time with emotion and whatnot, but the reality is I’ve been trained by some of the meanest folks in showbiz, so I know my way around making people feel like actual shit. So please do not cross my ass - for example: come into an oncology consult asking if I know I have cancer because you didn’t bother reading my fucking chart or have a front desk full of nurses who are very obviously sick with Covid in a fucking oncology waiting room, because I will destroy you in ways that years of therapy will not remedy. I’m not proud of this, but I would do it all over again if given the chance. Anywho, I finally picked my surgeon because he reminded me of Bill Pullman’s character in ‘Singles’ (the plastic surgeon who needs a new hair part and talks Bridget Fonda out of her breast implants). Oh and I also chose him because during the initial exam he asked if the beaded necklace I had on was made of emeralds (lol, bless) and I said, “who am I the Queen of Sheba” and he laughed, so that really sealed the deal for me.

“Hello billing - my patient is very wealthy and has many gemstones. Charge her for everything”

In the end, Dr. Bill Pullman with the kind eyes let me know I was gonna need a mastectomy and lymph removal - I had the appointment to discuss the plan on a Monday and by that Friday the old tit was lobbed off and I was lounging in my room in the very chic breast cancer wing, recovering with a view of the East River and Roosevelt Island Tram. I would warn folks that people in cancer wings - specifically after surgery - don’t do a lot of laughing or yuckin’ it up. So if you find yourself in my position and also happen to be someone who cracks a lot of jokes at inappropriate times, like say, me, it’s just really important to keep this in mind. Like, lets say your machine with the vitals accidentally turns off overnight, don’t ask the nurse tasked with the 3am shift if you’re dead and then make jokes about how maybe it’s hell instead of heaven and that would explain the food. I can’t even blame pain medications, because I was so stubborn that I was just taking Tylenol and Motrin and the nurses had to strongly recommend that I dipped my toe in the oxy water. I told them it’s not that I’m against pain medicine, I’m not, I just know that an opioid addiction is a bridge too far for this gal. I don’t have the energy to be down a tit AND having to score smack or whatever off some street corner in New Hampshire. Anyway, just you know, reign in the overnight Comedy Store tight 5 set you’ve been work-shopping until you’re at least dealing with the morning shift nurses. By the time I was getting discharged I think they had gotten used to me, so when my nurse was snapping a photo of the sliced and diced right breast area, where a glorious knocker once stood, but was now hollowed out and stitched back together with drains and tubes pumping out what looked like concentrated Hawaiian Tropic out of my chest cavity, I asked if she could send me a copy of the pic she took so I could use it for sexting. Luckily, she laughed. Then I was kicked out into the real world, titless, and still not crying.

For someone who is used to being alone 99.9% of the time, having to rely on others is a real challenge. Not because my friends weren’t incredible - they were. They made sure Linus was walked, I was eating, medicine was being taken at the correct intervals, I wasn’t falling in the shower while taking a whore’s bath (Porky Pig Style - trash bag on top, cinched at the waist, naked below) and that I was, in general, ok. I slowly hobbled around the block with them on walks to get some fresh air, and then twice a day we’d engage in “milking” my drains. Which is basically just stripping out the blood and fat into the little bulbs and then you note and measure the liquid. Real twisted Mr. Wizard shit. It wasn’t too long after being home that I realized that the breast juice collecting in the bulb part reminded me of those Juice Barrels you’d see at convenience stores in the 80s and 90s. I will never, ever be able to drink fruit punch again.

(FYI - You can change the Nelly song “Pimp Juice” to “Tit Juice” pretty easily if you’re on Oxy and Lorazapam and have two friends pulling at the tubes coming out of your chest cavity to make sure all the tissue and liquid is draining….lightens the mood)

Even though asking my friends for help was difficult - made even more difficult by the fact that they had to look and touch my breast area to make sure it was healing ok - something that was wildly, wildly uncomfortable for me, even then I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry when we realized one of the drains was sitting on nerve, so anytime you “milked” the damn thing it felt like you were plucking it raw. And speaking of nerves, I didn’t even cry when the nerve pain started. First was when I would sit up and would feel like someone had doused my right chest with lighter fluid and then set me on fire. I didn’t cry when it then shifted to feeling like someone was stabbing me dead center in the sternum, Pulp Fiction-style. I didn’t cry, but I did violently cuss. I didn’t cry when my friend kindly washed my hair and accidentally sucked it up into the blow-dryer moments later. I didn’t cry when my mother, for some reason, thought it appropriate to text me obituary notices as FYI’s for people I peripherally knew in my hometown, despite it being a tad…..morbid. None of that phased me. I did however come close to my breaking point when, about six days after my surgery I began to get very, very sick. After two days of, gonna be honest here, violent diarrhea and energy that went from a solid 60% despite the recent mastectomy, down to about a 5%, we knew something was off. I ended up having to call the after hours surgeon who sent me to the Cancer ER that my hospital has (honestly, perks of having cancer, a dedicated ER). That’s where I almost lost it - being dehydrated meant they couldn’t get IVs in, and having a lymph removal meant they couldn’t use my right arm because of lymphedema worries (which, if I thought being an oxy addiction was a bridge too far, having a Beefy-giant-lumpy Popeye arm from Lymphedema ON TOP of being down a tit and single is - whats a longer distance than a bridge too far? Cause I will fucking blast myself into the center of the sun if I have to deal with that - I am NOT in the mood). So at one point I had 4 IVs in my left arm, the fucking blood pressure cuff on my Right ankle, and kept getting up to go to the bathroom between CT scans, while being in a hallway full of people who were really, really, really sick. You know why people don’t make dumb fucking jokes like I did while I was in the hospital? Because they’re too sick to joke, and the people around them look scared. And as I was sitting in a wheelchair around all of that, it made me feel just awful. Awful for being there in the first place, but truly awful because I was lucky despite all of it. Lucky because my best friend from growing up is a doctor and was talking me through the results over the phone as they came though. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky. But even lucky people can potentially shit themselves to death, I guess. I was diagnosed with C. Diff from the antibiotic that was keeping my chest cavity safe from the drains that were potentially bringing germs into my body. I was weak, dehydrated and now hyper contagious to the very friends who were tasked with helping me. The ER doctor asked me if I had a spare bathroom and I said, “oh of course not - I live in Brooklyn, who do you think I am the Queen of Sheba”. Only this time neither of us laughed. So while I was waiting to be discharged I booked my friend a hotel room to be safe. I white-knuckled my uber ride to the pharmacy (you don’t know terror and the power of prayer until you can’t stop shitting and have to sit in an uber for 45 minutes in stop and go traffic from the UES, down the FDR, across the river and into Brooklyn). At the pharmacy I was told the insurance was disputing the need for the C.Diff meds and so I had to shell out $500 out of pocket for those. I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry when it started pouring rain and what would be a 10min walk home turned to almost 30 because I felt so awful, my breast and drain areas aching, the nerve pain kicking up as a real “Fuck you”. But I didn’t cry. I wanted to, though.

And then I got home and I was alone. For someone who is so well-versed in handling things by herself, someone who had such a hard time asking for and receiving help, the shift to being alone when I felt well and truly awful was abrupt. I gingerly dragged my pillows and blankets to the couch one-handed. Set up shop close to the bathroom and in an easier area to move around, while still hindered from the surgery and lack of mobility with my right arm. I geared up to milk my own drains and add another pill to the every 6-hour regimen. And I ordered bone broth and stared blankly at the TV. Oh, a strange side-effect of this whole ordeal is that I’ve had zero concentration. Can’t read. Can’t watch movies - not even old favorites. Most of the time the best I can do is zone out while I have Below Deck on in the background (don’t ask why the high seas adventures of Yachties are soothing) or scroll for hours on the “Marine Traffic” app I found while in the hospital where I would track the movements of cargo ships, sailing vessels and pleasure craft, zooming in to see how big the swells were and how many knots these craft were up against. Oh, that reminds me - based on my newly acquired maritime knowledge, don’t EVER go on a boat in the South Indian Ocean - that shit is a NIGHTMARE weather-wise. Swells like you wouldn’t believe, my friend. Anyway, yeah. Needless to say - I’ve been a bit of an emotionless zombie. Until…

Later that week, a few pounds lighter, crankier and much more over-it, after having to venture back to the city to have one of my drains removed (which, again, something they don’t tell you is that they don’t numb you or anything - they just YANK OUT THE DRAIN -PULLING IT OUT OF YOUR CHEST AND YOU CAN FEEL IT SORT OF BUMPING AGAINST YOUR RIBS) and then back home, again, using up all of my prayers and cosmic goodwill to pray for my stomach to behave for the journey - I was back on my couch, curled up, nursing some bone broth, when I accidentally switched from BRAVO over to Food Network. Here’s something about me - I don’t like cooking shows. It’s like window shopping - whats the fucking point? Why get my hopes up if I can’t taste the food or buy the dress I’m coveting? The only exceptions are the old PBS show The Frugal Gourmet ( pretty sure he was a pedophile, but my nostalgic mind glosses over that) and Wok with Yan. I still think his pun-aprons are fucking hysterical. Other than those shows, I really don’t care for cooking TV. So, I was a little surprised that my zombie brain kept it on that channel for a few minutes longer than I should’ve and inadvertently got sucked into an episode of “The Pioneer Woman” - someone who ticks off multiple “why I hate them” boxes. Number one, it’s a cooking show. Number two, her faux folksy ass “I’m just a big city girl living out on this ol’ ranch out here” when in reality her husbands family has a net-worth of 200 million without her Pioneer Woman enterprises and they’re also like the 23rd largest landowner in the fucking United States. This ain’t some backwoods bumpkin ranch. Number three, her voice and overall vibe unnerves me. And number four, she used to call her husband “Marlboro Man” haahaahhahaaha. Honestly, burn in hell, Ree. I’m not a fan. At. All. So you could color me shocked when I found myself truly engrossed in Ree explaining to the camera that on today’s episode she was going to make spicy carnitas for their Ranch-hand Pete. See Pete had been working on the farm for over 20 some-odd years - he’d been there longer than Ree had, and was part of the Drummond family. A simple man who loved working on the combine, fixing the combine and spicy food. Ree announced with glee that he carried a bottle of hot sauce in his glove compartment box! Normally I’d react with anger - liking hot sauce isn’t something so terribly novel, and also, for some reason when she describes it, the whole thing sounds mildly racist. But instead, I found myself…WEEPING. Just pure, uninhibited weeping. There was something in that dumb segment, with Pete talking about the pride he had in his work and his love of fucking hot sauce that opened something inside of me that had been jammed since all this shit started. My shoulders were shaking. I had to wipe the tears from my eyes and then, I swear to god, I turned to my dog who really looked at me like he was worried about my mental health, and then I said out loud to him, “ that’s really sweet”. And you know what, IT WAS SWEET. Do I think this man is underpaid, undervalued and probably living in a sort of fucked up weird indentured servitude around low-key racists? Yeah, I do - but Pete seemed very kind and grateful and a little bashful at the attention he was getting, and for one brief fucking second, the smallest little moment, I sat there, walls down, crying while Ree screeched about pork butt in the background.

Ree and Pete: Or How My Grinch Heart Melted - One Spicy Pork Butt At A Time

The cork was back in my emotions long before the episode was over - even my cold Grinch heart has it’s limits - and apparently that limit is some sort of bullshit cowboy cheesy refried bean casserole. Just because you live on a fucking ranch doesn’t mean you have to cook like you’re handling the Chuck Wagon on the Chisholm trail, you fraud. But for a brief moment, the tears fell and it released a little of the pressure thats been building up in that space where a breast used to reside.

I’m still in recovery mode. The breast itself is healing well and all the drains are out and now it’s just a bit of limbo. Waiting on more pathology and dealing with filling the expander that’s a place holder in my chest. Which again, I’m 99% certain that everything with this process was made by a man, because if a man had to deal with these horrors, they’d be on that Michael Jackson twilight sleep shit for every procedure. Instead, you go to the Plastic Surgeon where they find the little port on the expander in your former tit via a magnet and then stab you in the chest with a giant syringe and slowly expand out the breast - little by little. No numbing. Just shoving needles into you left and right. Making your chest feel more and more tender and bruised the larger it gets. And then the gift from all of that is that you get to do another surgery. This time to get the implant in and to match the other breast to the new one…and then comes the conversation about nipples, which I can’t even have at this point because nothing on this planet, save for parasites, grosses me out more than the idea of someone twisting tissue into a faux nipple that may or may take when its attached to your strange, scarred, Barbie breast. But I’m truly ok. The C.Diff has been the worst part, honestly. And I guess it’ll take some time to get back to normal. For now, I’m just taking it easy. Going on walks. Tracking pleasure craft with funny names in and out of tropical ports, imagining the adventures random people are having on the high seas. I’m waiting on more pathology to solidify the rest of my treatment plan, and will cross whatever bridge I come across, but save for my brief moment with Ree and Pete, I’m one again “ok”. Seemingly unfazed by it all - I’m sure at some point the walls will come crashing down and the floodgates will open……but maybe not? Maybe that was it - watching a man who deserved some recognition getting warm carnitas and fucking casserole brought out to him, camera team in tow, maybe that was all I needed to get out. All I know is that life is surprising. I never anticipated having my breast removed - but even that seems more logical and inevitable to me than crying over the fucking Pioneer Woman. I guess if my life was a movie - when the news came about the big life changing event, when they pulled back from my weeping face, it would reveal Food Network on the tv in the background, with Ree Drummond chattering on screen about needing to feed the men hearty hunks of bullshit , and then The Talking Heads would start blasting, “And you may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?” while the camera pulls back and back and back and back and back and then we’re just a fucking speck in the cosmos.

Everything is going to be ok.