It is what it is

Coming to terms with the lump in my breast

Update: it’s confirmed. I have breast cancer.

At the end of May, I found out that I have a lump in my breast. BIRADS 4c if you’re curious. That’s the kind of lump that makes a doctor furrow their brow in a “hmm” kind of way. Not a “oh my god this is bad” kind of way or a “this is nothing” kind of way, but the kind of way that says that this is 80% likely to be cancer.

Last week, I had a biopsy and a contrast mammogram. They stuck a tiny piece of titanium onto the lump so that when it’s eventually removed (because it is the kind of lump that regardless of what it is, it will be removed) a distracted surgeon, who may be thinking about his drive home or his drive to work or his next surgery or his last meal, won't accidentally miss the lump he’s supposed to remove. I love innovations like these.

I’m ok. I feel like I have a devil on my back and I can’t exactly dance as I usually do but generally, I’m ok. I am glad that it took until my 41st birthday to find something like this. I’m glad that the clinic is close to where I live. I’m glad that there is no lymph node involvement and that the other little lump they found turned out to be a cyst. That discovery justified why I didn’t take this lump seriously for so long – because it doesn’t actually feel like a lump. It feels like a thing that should be there.

But I can’t help but wonder: why do I have a lump at all?

Is it because I used to store my cell phone in my bra? We’d joke it would give us all breast cancer, my other friends who did it too. We’d joke and not really care about it because it probably wouldn’t give us breast cancer and also, who cares, we have no pockets.

Is it because my mother had one once too? If it’s that, then it will be good news in the end. It will be benign. Just like the 10-pound tumour my grandfather managed to grow on his stomach which made him look like he had a belly and that gave him hiccups for four months after they removed it. Or maybe it’s like my brother’s Stage 3 melanoma that he beat a few years ago.

Is it because I used a breast pump for five months, trying to feed two too-small babies at once? I hauled that pump everywhere and it was miserable. Miserable. Painful and miserable and left me with mastitis and shooting pains everywhere and I couldn’t sleep on my stomach but as the advocates told me, breast is best.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t use enough sunscreen. Or I used too much sunscreen. Microplastics. Air pollution. Refined sugar. Toothpaste. Aluminum deodorant. Natural deodorant. Not enough blueberries. Too much magnesium. Not enough oxygen. Too much thinking about being a famous writer some day.

Maybe it’s all the alcohol I have ever drank in my life. Maybe it all concentrated itself down to the compacted little nodes of a tumor. Or maybe it’s because I mostly drank cheap wine. Or beer. Or perhaps it was not enough wine. I should have smoked more. I should have stopped drinking after soccer matches sooner. I should have stopped drinking at 30. I should have not enjoyed alcohol so much. I should have done MDMA more than once.

Or maybe it’s actually carbon capture, the result of drinking more carbonated water than water itself. That and coffee. But I did cut out caffeine. Maybe it wasn’t soon enough. Or maybe I drink too much decaf. I do drink a lot of decaf. No carbon capture is more likely. The tumor might actually be graphite. Or even better, a diamond.

Maybe it was learning French, and all the negative energy that I felt every time someone corrected me or didn’t understand what I was saying manifested itself into a lump. Or maybe I should have learned another language. Maybe learning Portuguese does not come with any side effects.

It also could be that I’ve taken too many elbows or balls to the chest in soccer. I have taken a lot of elbows to the chest which I can now say feels like a biopsy.

Maybe that my enemies’ incantations to cause me harm have actually worked. Or perhaps my own incantations to cause others harm have backfired. It’s hard to know when we’re dealing with such things.

It also isn’t lost on me that it could be the fact that I work alone, isolated from the world, in front of a computer screen that is probably giving me radiation and a loneliness complex that I can only solve by growing something inside me that can eventually keep me company. Maybe it’s that.

I should have run more but also probably run less, had better sports bras or stopped wearing a bra all together. I should have never dyed my hair that one time when I was 13 or ever said that it would be cool if my breasts were smaller so I could fit into this dress that otherwise fits perfectly, and I absolutely should not have yelled into the universe that i was looking for a break because the universe only has one speed when it comes to humour and that speed is irony.

I don’t really think I caused this or that I’m being punished. I don’t wonder why me any more than I wonder what day is it. The only thing that keeps coming out of my mouth when I mention to people that I have a lump in my breast is that it is what it is. It is what it is and that’s it.

Of course, I don’t know what the lab that currently holds my needle-extracted biomass is going to say. It’s too soon. I have to wait until the end of the week. Maybe the news will be good, though I’m bracing for it to be bad.

When the doctor wishes you good luck after a biopsy, it feels bad. Maybe he just always says that to people because he’s just wiped up your blood and saying “have a nice day” seems contrite but it sounded more like, “buckle up, baby.” I appreciated not appreciating it.

Liminal space is the best/worst space to live and so it is what it is in a formless and shapeless moment in time. Either I have cancer and I currently already at this moment have cancer like 20 cm just below where my chin is, or I don’t. And if I don’t, what am I even writing about?

I’m not angry. I’m sad a little bit and I’m more fragile than usual, but it is what it is. It is what it is. Only fools rage against the seasons or the clouds or the flowers or the squirrels. There’s nothing I can do, and that’s fine because my to-do list is stupid long as it is.