Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Earthquake: Complementary

I have been waiting for two weeks for the plastic surgeon's office to respond to an emailed list of questions about my surgery...and I'm mad.

The breast surgeon was so sweet and positive! Her counterpart, on the other hand, seemed detached and impersonal. Thing is, I have heard that both are the best, and that they work pretty well together. Complement each other, if you will. 

{top- gap; skirt- velvet via anthro}

Yesterday's earthquake shook me the fuck up.  I was at home and felt the entire house positively sway.  I went next door and asked the workmen, who are prepping a house for a new family, if they'd done any demolition that might shake the houses. And then some of the neighborhood kids ran up screaming, "Miss 13! Miss 13! There was an earthquake! We felt it too!" 

We felt it too.  
Sometimes I wonder how much of my feelings about this whole boob thing are universal.  There's the anger, then the action, then the frustration of dealing with people who say, "Isn't that a little extreme?" 

Extreme to me is putting off a surgery that reduces the risk of getting a disease that both my parents, both my female grandparents, and my dead sister had. Brave are those who can bear to keep their breasts with such a family history...

 I'm not brave. I'm practical. When the earthquake hit I sent my family a text telling them we were all fine. I checked the gas lines and rang the doorbell of the oldest woman on our little block to make sure she was okay. I am similarly practical about this: mammograms and MRIs and ultrasounds to catch a disease that is already there or chopchop and reduce my risk down to teensy percentages? It wasn't a hard call for me.

 I went out for drinks, passing folks who were dancing in the street yelling "We survived!"


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