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Millie and Me

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Today is Millie’s birthday. She’s two years old. Yesterday was my birthday. Ha! As if I was going to tell how old I am. Besides, nobody is interested my birthday. Not even me.

 

Millie gets top billing today and every day. She’s a dog, after all, and dogs are better than people. They are easier to love, and they always love you back. At least eight or 10 humans didn’t love me back. But that’s a story for another day.

 

This is a dog tale. Like all canine chronicles, it is a story of a hero’s journey. But remember, it’s the journey that counts, not the destination.

 

Some dogs are born heroes. Lassie. Rin Tin Tin.

 

Some dogs have heroics thrust upon them. Lady. Tramp.

 

Some dogs have heroism buried deep within. Marley. Millie.

 

Marley?

The Swede Who Loved Me

This is the story of the Swede Who Loved Me.

 

This is not a “ain’t single life fabulous” story. I hate them.

 

Don’t get me wrong; the unmarried-way works for me. I am even fabulous on occasion. But alone and awesome tales are usually considered pathetic attempts to convince myself that I am happy, while “what we did on vacation” is all the evidence of bliss a wedded couple needs.

 

Let’s get one thing straight. I am not happy. That’s my nature, not my marital status. I’m ok with it. Anxiety is my go-to emotion. If I am trying to convince myself otherwise, you better believe it’s on doctor’s orders.

 

If my marital status makes me anything, it’s interesting. Interesting as in, “your new haircut is interesting,” or “you are so cool and do the most interesting things.”

 

This is a story about the latter.

Why I Stopped Blogging

why I quit blogging

 

Blame the first doctor who told me I don’t have breast cancer for why I stopped blogging.

 

 

 

Or the second one, though the third was the most unpleasant.  Seeing her was not my idea. I was a mere cog in the Protocol machine.

 

 

 

Ironically, Protocol did not improve Dr. #3’s manners. Doctors should not scold patients. Especially when they can’t be bothered to read the notes they took the last time you were naked and examined.

 

 

 

Blame can also be placed on the fact that even not having breast cancer puts the hell in hellth-care. That bitch Protocol says I have to do drugs for half a decade, get felt up twice annually and expose the rest of me to enough extra radiation to nuke pizza.

 

 

 

If that die-namic duo is not enough to zap a gal’s blogging ability into oblivion, let’s add that oldie but goodie, the universal place to lay blame for every 8-year-old whose writing assignments also didn’t get written:

 

 

 

“The dog ate my homework.”

If This is Medical Protocol, I’d Rather Be Uncivilized!!!

Medical Protocol can make you scream

 

Neither of us have been around here lately. Thanks for being polite enough not to mention how I haven’t given you too many reasons to stop by since the summer.

 

 

I’m going to assume you are also too polite to ask about the dearth of posts, not that you didn’t notice. You obviously adhere to protocols for a civilized society, which means you will also politely indulge my delusion of grandeur.

 

 

Pardon the expression but the last six months sucked. S.U.C.K.E.D.

 

 

Quick recap: Last time on SingleandtheSweetSideof40.com, my left boob, aka the center of the universe, was under assault by medical professionals and their protocols, which, take it from me, are far from civilized.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month: Needles & Nurses & Cells, Oh My

breast cancer awareness

 

 

 

I recall my first mammogram. Not fondly. The amount of pain shocked me. So did the doctor.

 

This was pre-Women’s Imaging Center, when I was living in Chicago. Pre-sister’s cancer diagnosis, too. My doctor was a solo practitioner radiologist so everybody stepped into her office to get their results.

 

 

After a poker-faced review of my images right in front of me, the doctor slapped both hands on her desk and demanded, “So, what do you want to know?

 

 

“You want to know if you have cancer.
   Well, you don’t.”

 

Hold on, Nellie. I DID NOT WANT TO KNOW IF I HAD CANCER. “Do I have cancer?” was not on my list of questions at all. I didn’t have a list of questions. The sole purpose for my masochistic visit was that I recently turned 40.

Breast Cancer Awareness Months and Months and Months

Monthly Self Exam

 

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

 

 

To paraphrase the Bard, “Some are born aware, some achieve awareness, and some have awareness thrust upon them.”

 

 

Count me in that last group.

 

 

Agreed, you’d have to be headless or TV-less to duck the October deluge of heart-string-tugging ads from corporations rolling out their pink carpets, t-shirts and limited edition packaging. Breast cancer #humblebrags are thrust on all of us 24/7/3

 

 

Not that there is anything wrong with that:

 

 

Big business = big bucks = support for research, education and screenings.

 

 

Awareness and money are raised by the fully array of entities: Ford Motors, an early partner with breast cancer organizations; Comcast-NBCU, whose Chairman is married to a survivor; and even the NFL where for four weeks, attention to women’s breasts is not offensive.

 

 

When it’s over-the-top cloying or annoying, we can hit mute or change the channel until orange and black and red and green replace pink in our collective color coding. By the time we turn back the clocks, we tune out breast cancer.

 

 

Unless…

 

Awareness hits you like a Ford Focus. Like me. Now I can’t keep my eye on the ball. My favorite fall TV shows have been bumped by non-stop, live coverage of….

 

 

My left boob.

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