My Left Breast hates me

Joan Crawford vs. Bette Davis

Tanya harding vs. Nancy Kerrigan

Classic feuds where one party wanted to ANNIHILATE the other.

I can relate, except my feud is not with a legendary Hollywood actress or a professional skater. My conflict is with My Left Breast.

It all started back in July of 2019 when it was discovered that My Left Breast (MLB) had been secretly, quietly conspiring with dastardly mofo Cancer, to do me in. Based on the number and size of my tumors, I surmise they had been scheming for a while behind my back (or is that in front of my back?). Luckily, I’m a fairly observant person, saw what they were up to, and shut that shit down. Out of my quiver, I drew a chemo laden arrow, a bilateral mastectomy and wrapped it up with radiation for good measure.

Cancer retreated, like the vile, nasty little bitch that it is. 

My Left Breast, however, decided it wasn’t going down without a fight, even though it had been removed from the premises by one very badass surgeon. Since then, things between me and MLB have been on a low simmer. Scars healing and both of us ready to move on. 

Or so I thought.

January 2021 rolled around, and it was time for tissue expander surgery, in preparation for reconstruction later this year. Little did I know how petty My Left Breast was with being replaced.

By February, MLB talked the expander into busting out. My Left Breast, in a low, charismatic whisper to Expander: “Don’t you feel trapped in here? Always too warm and really cramped from that dipshit radiation. You know you want out. Just do it…dooooo it…you know you want to”. And with that, Expander saw a way to breach the healing incision and made a run for it. 

Once again, I was on the defense, cursing MLB as I headed into another surgery to fix the escape attempt. I healed up, and continued with saline injections into the expanders, cursing at My Left Breast to leave me be. 

Could we PLEASE have a truce?

MLB settled down for a bit, but last Friday, attacked with precision. I did NOT see it coming. Mainly because I was asleep when it started. Once again Expander got involved, MLB poisoning me with an infection as it’s weapon of choice. 

I was blindsided. I woke up barely able to function. I had a killer headache, my whole body was shaking, I had a fever, and felt nauseous. But not happy with just making me feel like a hungover fratboy passed out in a public fountain, MLB made sure I felt like the left side of my chest was on fire, hot to the touch and flaming bright red.

My Left Breast is actually an Asshole

I’m picturing My Left Breast reciting Jules Winnfield’s fiery speech from Pulp Fiction: “…And I will strike down upon thee with grrrrrrrreat vengeance and FURIOUS anger…” as it aims at my chest.

In my stupor, I managed to make it to the doctor. I opened my shirt and I think I may have seen her wince at the sight. She examined me, then instructed me to call my plastic surgeon for a consult and follow-up.

After 5 solid days on the greatest medical invention in history – antibiotics – I saw my surgeon. We discussed my options if MLB tries to kill me again after the antibiotics are done. 

Meanwhile, My Left Breast can kiss My Right Ass Cheek.