boobboobboobboobboob

I really have been wanting to post here more often. Really. No, I mean it. And its not just that I'm a slacker of momentous proportions (though that does come into play), its more that I've been a bit...fixated. On my boob.

Yeah, that explains everything, doesn't it? Its a good thing that not many read this blog yet, or I'd have to say something like "stop reading here if you're squeamish."

My boob (Righty, if you want to know) is sick. Lots and lots of folks have been poking at her, and a few more have given her the squinty eye. (And I'm not even talking about the guys I dated.) Words like "cancer" have come up (a lot, and more frequently now) and just so you know, that's freaked me out a bit. I have a biopsy scheduled for next week, and they're going to lop off the end of her. I've been trying to figure out what to write about in this space here, and finally decided that I just had to get it out of my system. Post and be done, you know? Move on.

So, here's what not to say to someone who's scared shitless and stuck in that awful waiting zone: "Don't worry, everything will be ok." The sister phrase, "everything happens for a reason," ain't so hot either.

What do you say? That's a damn fine question. This is what Dragon had to say:

So, you don't want to hear that everything is going to be okay? Fine. Nothing is ever going to be okay. Really. It's not, you know, because life isn't like that. It's never, ever ever okay. There are always problems, issues, items of redress. When is it going to be okay? When will we stop grieving over every life we've led only to have to kill or hide that person we became, when will we have no more bills to pay, when will the ozone layer stop depleting?!? When will we be comfortable with ourselves, our mates, our friends? When will there stop being too much of everything and not enough of anything? So, everything is not going to be okay, Cyn, but the not okay of now will someday become the not okay of yesterday. And that has to be good enough.

Seriously. Write that down somewhere. Put it in your address book, stick it in with your stationary, even if its just the last two lines. Because the person who's freaking their shit out needs to hear it. Way more than they need to hear that ______ (insert deity) has a special plan for them. And while you're at it? Tell 'em to quit talking so much about themselves.

~Swan

Dragon: Don't worry, dear. Everything will never be okay, but we'll at least be together. *barf* And I'm glad you got some of that out; it's been festering a while, and I know you have more, so please: at my insistence, feel free to rant at a random stranger today. Just pick anyone off the street and start yelling. Enjoy.