I have a new boyfriend. He is a handsome young Indian oncological surgeon at Cedars-Sinai, and I saw him today for my breast, the infection in which has spread rapidly since I finished my antibiotics. It still could be an infection. I haven’t had a biopsy.
My two favorite exes have been alternating in taking care of me emotionally, taking me to stand in the pharmacy line at USC, or rushing there to get my mammography files. But I feel I need all the boyfriends I can get right now; I am preparing to be an epic and unending source of tragic need.
I’m lazy anyway.
Today, I asked my new boyfriend for a Valium prescription. I promised I wasn’t a pill-popper, but I felt some Valium would be beneficial at this particular moment in time. He understood, but doesn’t prescribe.
I am pretty sure I also flirted with him – mildly: I didn’t have any drinks in me. I know I murmured in my soft, cultivated voice, while my sexy infected breast hung there between us, how very proud his parents must have been with their oncological-surgeon son. He demurred that all parents are proud. I think maybe he hasn’t met all parents.
I have another appointment with a different surgeon at the Breast Center in the morning. I should be getting a biopsy on-site, and should have a diagnosis within a day or two.
The thing is, if it’s not an infection, it’s an incredibly rare and particularly lethal form of cancer, called inflammatory breast cancer. Which is lame and stupid, and I have many thoughts on the matter. I imagine I will tell you more of them later.