Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy

Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy Read Free Page B

Book: Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy Read Free
Author: Geralyn Lucas
Tags: nonfiction, Biography & Autobiography, Retail, Personal Memoir, breast cancer
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didn’t seem concerned. He seemed more upset that we were late to a movie, because I was always late. He was always on time. Maybe he was snapping at me because he, too, was terrified of the lump, because he had seen too many bad lumps. He seemed like such an asshole right then, but he must have been scared.
    I cried through the whole movie, The Bridges of Madison County , not because I was sad, but because I was so worried about the lumps I had found in the shower, and I couldn’t believe that Tyler seemed like he didn’t even care. It was a kind of cathartic and safe place to sob—everyone walked out of that movie sniffling. When I mentioned the lumps again after the movie, he had that same tone of voice. He was so dismissive that I almost believed I was a hypochondriac.
    Until I told my gynecologist. The remaining lump (the other two went away after my period) was buried so deep in the right corner of my right breast near my armpit that she couldn’t feel it at first. I had to guide her hand all the way into my breast.
    “Geralyn. It’s probably nothing because you are so young. But I never play games with lumps. You need a sonogram.”
    It was especially cruel timing. I mean, not that there’s ever any good time to get breast cancer, but I was there to tell my gynecologist that I was ready to get pregnant. Instead of leaving her office with a prescription for prenatal vitamins, I left with a prescription for a sonogram of the lump. A sonogram turned into a mammogram, which then became a biopsy. No one with white coats in those white rooms was treating me like a hypochondriac. I wished I were a hypochondriac. I wished that my husband was right. I thought about all the petty gloats I had had whenever I was right in arguments. But there was no gloating now, just terror, with Dr. B and Tyler and the results we have just heard about my biopsy.
    The first thing that I need to do is tell my little brother, Howard, who is in the waiting room. He is not really little, he’s twenty-three, but he was like my baby growing up. I want to lie and protect him from this bad news.
    Howard hugs me and tells me that everything will be okay. Howard will later offer to drop out of law school to take care of me. He offers to take night courses so that he can take me to every chemo. I will cry when I hear his kindness, but my parents and I convince him that his life has to go on even if mine is screeching to a halt. Howard walks with me and Tyler the four blocks back to our apartment on 96th Street between Park and Madison. I see a chalkboard outside our favorite neighborhood bistro that says “Today’s Specials.” As I pass that sign, I think of how easy those decisions had been—whether to have soup or salad—and how I stumbled over them. I remember how angry I was at myself because I had forgotten to drop off Tyler’s shirts at the dry cleaners that morning.
    When we get back to our apartment, Tyler cries until he starts honking his nose when he blows it.
    “Geralyn, please, please don’t leave me. I’m so scared we’re going to break up. People who get cancer, they leave their marriages.”
    What? His comment totally floors me. I am the one who should be worried about being left. I am the damaged goods. The nurse at my biopsy already implied how “lucky” I am that I am married (as if I can’t even flirt now).
    That night, I decide to make a list of everyone I need to call to say that I have cancer. I don’t want anyone to hear it secondhand. Like secondhand smoke, or clothing, it’s not as good as the original and I realize that there is etiquette even in cancer. I get through the first call to my parents in Philadelphia. My dad keeps saying, “You have cancer? Really?” Then they start to wail. And, as if on cue, the fire alarm goes off. They must have been cooking dinner when I called and now it is burning. My mom says the house is crying. They still live in the same house in Philadelphia where I lived since I was

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