Doing the Breaststroke in a Frozen Margarita


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.










2 thoughts on “Doing the Breaststroke in a Frozen Margarita

  1. So…there’s this thing called The Entertainer Blogger Award that I nominated you for here:

    Even if you decide not to “follow the rules” for the award (you rebel!) I just want you to know that I respect you and what you write on your blog.

    Just so you don’t think I’m trying to con you into reading my blog against your wishes, I’m copying what I wrote about you there below:

    LindaLanger6–They say “Brevity is the soul of wit.” Trust me when I say, Linda’s blog, in the best of ways, is pretty spectacularly brief.

    Thanks for what you do.

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