No, that’s not me.
But it captures a mood.
After months of anger at the medical community for finding cancer in my breast, for removing it and for giving me 28 radiation treatments, I resentfully concluded that I would get back at them by never, ever, getting another mammogram in my life.
Yeah, that’d show ’em.
Sure. Yeah. That’s the story.
Gradually, oh so gradually, I realized I was living the old “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die” scenario.
I reluctantly made an appointment.
Like a petulant child, scuffing the toe of my shoe stubbornly with each step, I kept the appointment. I had a 3D Diagnostic Mammogram. And I waited in my pink, open in the front gown for the results.
All is well, they said. Normal, they said. And like a priest giving benediction they said, You are free to go.
I got very drunk on frozen margaritas.
I showed ’em.