0.6%

(Warning: Non-funny rant ahead)

So I’m spending yet more time researching the dire effects of chemotherapy and other fun stuff like that, when I come across a handy-dandy little “risk calculator,” that asks some basic questions and then assesses your chances of getting breast cancer within the next 5 years. I put in my info, and out it spits.......0.6%. Now, I’m not the most mathy person out there, but even I know that that’s about a 3 in a billion chance. I have a greater chance of getting killed by terrorists while buying the winning multi-million lottery ticket at a convenience store that’s being struck by lightning. And even that calculation only looks at family history and a few other things, and not stuff like whether one smokes and drinks (bad) or exercises (good). Take those into account and my chances should be about -241%. So my comment on all this is: What. The. Fuck. Yes, folks, Miss Tasha has suddenly hitched a ride on the Bitterness Train.

Because I was thinking about how last year at exactly this time, we had the Assclown Situation, where my car was totaled on I-55 by felonious jackass Eric Strickland, he of no license and no insurance. And how my friends told me that I should be thankful I wasn’t killed, since it was a horrendous crash that closed all lanes of the highway for some time, totaled several cars, had hunky firefighters dashing about in a dither, etc. And I am. I was. But these comments were coming from friends who are happily married, two-income households with great jobs, have just had kids, and in general have had all the bounty of life heaped in their laps. While me, I’m scratching out a meager existence in the land of Could Be Worse, like some Dickensian street urchin, hands outstretched to fate saying “Please, sir, could I perhaps not have my house burn down today? Thank you kind sir.” In other words, what I have going for me is that I’m “not dead yet.” And that struck me as a little unfair, that that’s what I have to be grateful for.

And now, now I can’t even go with the “well at least I have my health” schtick. Instead I have “at least it’s ONLY Stage 2 cancer,” though instead of having a teensy bit of good luck – or rather, just being “normal” like in 99% of these cases - and having an easily-removed lump that would let me do hormone therapy instead of chemo, my current choices seem to be a) remove lump right away and be disfigured because of where it’s located, or b) do chemo before removing lump, said chemo might not even work to shrink it enough so I’ll still be disfigured, but as a bonus, like a really bad version of a Ginsu knife commercial (“but wait, there’s more!”), I’ll also be bald, infertile, and in early menopause. Those are some great fucking options. I’ll be quite a catch, me and my bad self.

So yes, I’m a little bitter. It’s not like I’m asking for a lot here, but maybe a LITTLE bit of good fortune in, say, ONE of the key aspects of life that people care about would be nice – job, relationships, health. That kind of sums it up, and right now, I’ve got a whole lot of nothing going on in all of the above. So again, I just have to say: What. The. Fuck.

Update: The above was written this morning, after a night of stewing in bitterness. And this afternoon I had an appointment with a new doctor, the oncologist, and so I got to leave the sunny confines of Comiskey and a great ball game to go hear the doctor tell me that oh, guess what – I only actually have ONE option! Because I have the kind of tumor that in all likelihood won’t respond to chemo to shrink it, and to remove the lump they’d need to take out a lot of the breast anyway, so I get what’s behind Door Number 3: a mastectomy. That’s just fantastic. I get to pay a ton of money and wind up in debt so that I can be disfigured. How the hell did I go in two weeks from my Schleprockian but relatively normal life to this shit?? Why do I even bother with anything if it all just boils down to this kind of garbage?

And as if I needed even more of a “fuck you” from the cosmos, I get home, rummage through my purse, to discover that............my keys are gone. Lost to the streets, or the ballpark, or wherever. Of course. Because sometimes, apparently, just having cancer isn’t enough.