So Long Lumpy

Thirteen years ago, while watching television, probably 90210 or Melrose Place, I felt something on my shoulder. My thoughts ran immediately to cancer and death at the tender age of twenty-three. This was before the days of instant internet access wherein one could spend obsessive amounts to time googling “shoulder lump”, “cancer at 23” and “alternative funeral music.” I called my doctor, got an appointment and was told my “lump” was actually a “lipoma”. Li-what? “Li-po-ma,” said the doctor. A benign tumor of fat cells with slow growth that does not have to be removed. Every twenty-three year old girl loves to be told a growing tumor of fat cells was her new best friend. Thus began the phase most appropriately titled “Me and My Lipoma: Growing a Second Head.” As time passed, pea sized Lumpy grew to what it is now: an almost baseball size lump of fat residing prominently on my shoulder. I am Lumpy, Hear Me Roar, In A Size Too Big to Ignore. In fact, the other day Owen grabbed my shoulder and said “Mummy’s ball. Mummy’s ball. Daddy, Mummy has a ball.” After wiping away the tears, I realized that my decision to have Lumpy excised by a surgeon was the right decision. Because even though a head rest at the age of seventy would be incredibly awesome and the envy of Noel Gallagher’s Oasis For the Old, it would be even nicer to wear a tank top without small children pointing. Tomorrow, Lumpy is being removed. The doctor informs “there will be a scar.” Which maybe I am to care about, but do realize (a) I think scars are cool and (b) a scar is much better than my son thinking I have a god damn ball smuggled under the skin of my shoulder. So Lumpy, I wish you well in your extraction. It has been fun. Remember that time I got really, really drunk and tried to take you out myself? Me either, but honestly, surprised it did not happen. But now the real question. How do I ask the surgeon that I need to see removed Lumpy without seeming insane? After all, he is really my firstborn.

Hormone Hell: One Woman's Lament

In an effort never to be pregnant again, and fearful of the 20% typical use failure rate of the diaphram, I talked to my doctor and was prescribed birth control pills. Birth control pills, in general, take three months of use before hormonal shifts settle. Things to expect are acne, weight gain, mood swings and your uncontrolled wine consumption. I was prepping for the battle, but my low dose Loestrin 24fe proved pretty awesome. I felt none of these ills, and was happy that my eggs were locked up prison style. Until now. This week is the last of the pack week, otherwise known as you become the devil and ride the crimson wave week. The last two days have been brutal. Tuesday I awoke with a pimpled chin and bloated belly. Last night involved night sweats and fitful sleep. This morning another pimple sprouted on the tip of my nose. Then I cried in my closet for ten minutes because every look to the mirror created disgust for hair, body and the Rudolph the Reindeer impersonation. But, I got over it. A hug from John, the knowledge that this is typical, my period arriving and a three mile run all proved vital to my sanity. Now at the end of the day, I am improved, none of the intense cramps that are typical of my first menses day are present. This is great news to everyone except the makers of Advil. One month down, two to go. Wish me luck.