A little while ago, I had an ultrasound. This was due to the belief that my body, and left fun bag in particular, were riddled with disease. Anyhow, we weren’t. According to the measure of sonography, me and my left fun bag are completely cancer free.
I was, to employ the language of happy young people I see on the E! entertainment network, treed. To wit: really rather pleased. Pleased, in fact, to just beyond a point of rapture.
The phrase “You Don’t Have Cancer” ranks highly in the register of things one wants to hear. Within its proper context, it’s is right up there with “I Love You”, “You’ve Got the Job” and “No. Honestly. That’s the Right Size for Me.” On almost any day to almost any person, this would have been good news.
On this day, however, I was peculiarly delighted as I had, by then, become unaccustomed to good news. I shan’t go on about my misfortune as such is (a) dull and (b) hardly good for encouraging traffic. But, let it be said, our house has misplaced 2 x grandmothers, gained 1 x delusional stalker, lost 1 x career, acquired 1 x incurable disease and placed 1 x mother w/ dementia in permanent residential care all within a year. And, my favourite fragrance from Hermès had been discontinued.
So, the No Cancer thing was akin to collecting The Academy’s award for Best Actress, really. Or the Man Booker. Or, Healthiest Left Fun Bag Featured in a Network Miniseries all at once. I was very happy. I immediately regretted not having worn a better frock to the imaging clinic. Perhaps something in pink organza.
I may not have been dressed like Gwyneth, but I certainly wept as she did for her 1998 acceptance speech. I was restrained, dignified and humble as I consented to my prize.
“You don’t have cancer,” he said.
You like me, I said to the ultrasound. You really, really like me.
A radiologist, as I have lately learned, is not supposed to say this sort of thing while waving their diagnostic wand. They’re supposed to submit their ultrasonic report long after they’ve smeared your left fun bag in goop, avoided eye contact with you and instructed you to pop your dress back on. But, this dude broke the rules. Bless him.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said.
“You can ask your GP,” he said as he squinted at little white lines on a black screen that looked like particularly shit Metallica cover art.
I looked for a sign in his face. What, I wondered, was the facial response to a malignant tumour? He seemed like a nice guy. He seemed the sort not, even after performing many such procedures, to remain unmoved by the appearance of The Grub.
Disaster would somehow be reflected in this nice man’s face. He avoided eye contact and looked only at my Metallica cans.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said. And a few goopy waves later, he did.
I do not advocate this sort of medical nagging. It’s neither sane nor safe.
But sanity and safety have never been my stronger suits. And I nagged him and nagged him because, as I explained, damnit, I NEEDED good news.
“You don’t have cancer,” he said.
“Now, don’t tell anyone.”
As I left, he told me, “You know, you actually have very young looking breast tissue.”
It was the best compliment I’ve received all year.
13 thoughts on “You Don’t Have Cancer”
Hermes still do some very pleasant fragrances as do many others. Treat yourself to finding a new favourite. The journey can be as much fun as the discovery. I’ve actually ended up with a number of die hard favourites for different occasions/moods.
Fucking hell Helen this “1 x delusional stalker” shit again >:( I remember when this happened at JJJ – I wanted to slowly charcoal that bastard after losing one of my favourite JJJ announcers. Would you like me to “deal” with this one!? Would be my pleasure!
As to the good news…well good! I seem to be collecting maladies as a 45 year old that I should have been able to wait until much later to have to put up with.
What can I say, YB. I’m clearly a whore to all media.
Daev buck the fuck up and take inspiration from Bambi. Who provides us with the best badhostess comment of all time. OF ALL TIME.
(Why did the Kanye meme die so quickly? I loved it.)
Thank goodness for that. I’d miss you Helen. Doesn’t matter what local medium I indulge in for a while, you always seem to pop up there, working or freelancing, and frankly, I like it and hope it continues until you get wheeled in to freelance entertain in my nursing home in 2060+. Radio – JJJ, Print – The Edge etc, Interwebs – Crikey. Teev – I can’t remember, but you were there. Long time fan, first time commenter.
Tough love is what I need sometimes, or just someone to state the fucking obvious. thanks! Glad your boobs look young ;)
My radiologist was a lovely young maid who chatted on about * The Biggest Loser * Benefits of Walking after din dins each night * Clothes Sizes * local sales * fave magazines….Even at the time I kind of thought it was an odd place to have a yummy mummy gossipy chat about all things popular culture….as I lay there tearful, scared, having a number of increasingly chaotic conversations with My Self and making Promises to the Universe that involved being nicer to folk, eating more fruit, and cutting back booze.
She also made a point of saying that she couldn’t tell one way or another what she was seeing (which, of course, once you are diagnosed and you cross over to the special place where you become a Credible & Deserving Patient and they open right up and tell you what is really going on, you realise was not the case…and she knew all along).
I now have two GORGEOUS GALS who live in a box in the undies draw (or when travelling, in a bag hanging on the door) that sit beautifully firm, perfectly formed where the old baggy sick ones use to be, and don’t nestle into my armpits like shy puppies when I lie flat on my back.
And – I have had 6 months of…”all clear”, “well done”, “great bloods” and “You Dont Have Cancer!”
Not to Tough Love you at such an early hour, but FFS, man.
Find a GP who is thorough and understanding. Get tested. Deal with the results. Amend your life to allow for the best mix of health and pleasure.
As for smoking. I have ceased to urge anyone to quit. The evidence that every smoker will die, unpleasantly, of an illness related to their addiction is too ample and amplified for me to even bother adding to the chorus.
BTW, search for a doc. In the meantime, this is pretty amusing http://www.inthemix.com.au/forum/showthread.php?t=137698
yeah… my body is doing some crazy shit and i’m too scared to go to the dr. i should probably stop smoking, the least i could do.
shit. i think i have cancer. gotta go to the doctor what do i say?
Seriously, Daev?
Huzzah for Helen’s boobs!
And most surprisingly, I just used those words in a sentence with absolutely no lewd or gigglesome intent.
Get an appt for the Gynos next. WOOT for positive affirmations about our bits.
BLECH.
Did I just say affirmations?
‘scusi
I had a similar experience with my berries, only the practitioner wasn’t so helpful. he was a hulking, bald man who covered my sack in warm goo and fondled them in a dark room. afterwards he tossed me some paper towels, told me to clean myself off and left me alone in a darkened room to contemplate my shame.
I had to wait a week to find out that my gangoolies were just fine.
the moral to my story is …. good for you, Helen!