When I was growing up, women wore lipstick. If they didn’t have lipstick on, you knew they were either sick, depressed, or under some sort of stress that caused them to forget to put on their face. Lipstick was as much a sign of respect for other people as it was an indication of their own self-esteem.
Throughout the years, this has changed, and women go without makeup, or without lipstick, or with “lip-colored” lipstick which is somehow supposed to be better than real lip color. I have chosen to live up to some people’s characterization of me as a “charm-school southern belle type” by maintaining my war paint. This has caused me to be the brunt of jokes at times (always from other women), but it is sort of a signature for me, like a particular type of fragrance might be a signature for someone else. The fact that I work in a male-dominated field only causes me to adhere more ferociously to my femininity. At times I will make an appearance at some function where women are prevalent, and one by one I see them slip out to the restroom to apply their own lipstick.
In the past few days, as I rushed out of the house for a myriad of early-morning appointments destined to deliver pain, I was careful to don the lipstick. Indeed, in an effort to cheer myself up, I had bought a couple of very cheery pink shades that are particularly bright but not garish. I look in the mirror and I see a person with enough optimism and confidence that she has not forgotten her appearance. The day I forget my lipstick is the day you should start worrying about me. I was particularly pleased when my hairstylist, whom I chartered to style my hair after Jamie Lee Curtis, said after she was done, “with this type of hairstyle you can do big lips or big eyes or whatever you want”.
So it was that yesterday I, my wonderful husband, my JLC hair and my lipstick faced the panel of doctors that will be providing my care for the next few months. Without exception, they were professional, competent, caring and willing to answer any and all questions. Questions were few, however, because they gave us such complete and thoughtful information. There are still a lot of “it depends” answers to future treatment. The dependent factor will be the results of the partial mastectomy and sentinel node biopsy that will occur on January 31.
On the right breast, they had to do an MRI-guided biopsy. This involved the same contraption as the breast MRI, but lasted an hour and a half. In addition, a plastic plate was set up perpendicular to my sternum, and then a plastic grid was placed on the other side, and these plates were compressed toward each other. I was slid into and out of the oven many times while the dye was injected and the suspicious spot was pinpointed. The radiologist played “Battleship” by locating on the grid the place where she would insert the “introducer”, through which she would then insert a long needle and take tissue samples.
All this time I was in the Flying Superman position, arms outstretched over my head, lying very, very still. I amused myself by singing “One little, two little, three little Indians…”– you know the song, right? But to make me have to focus more, I prescribed that the counting should be done in different languages. French, Spanish, German, Swedish. I found that my skills had deteriorated somewhat, but by having to retrieve the right translation, I was sufficiently distracted from the procedure that it eventually ended. Recovery from this biopsy has been much more arduous that the ultrasound biopsy, but I will refrain from regaling you with the details.
Initial results from the biopsy came in while I was conferring with my surgeon, and they show the area is benign! This is wonderful news. Still, both breasts will undergo surgery so that I don’t have to undergo a second surgery to make things match.
Meanwhile, before the biopsy, I was able to ply my dorset singles. I’m incredibly happy with the crisp bounciness of this 4-ply yarn, which is going to be excellent for texture. Unfortunately, I didn’t wind it into a ball, and now I will either have to bat my eyelashes fetchingly at my husband and ask him to do it, or wait another couple of days before I am able. I was aiming at a fingering weight, but it came out more like a DK, I think. I won’t really know until I’ve swatched it. From 8.5 ounces of roving I got about 580 yards of 4-ply.
