Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Meet my evil twin

Sorry about the bummer of a post yesterday. I hate to put that kind of negativity out there, especially when there are so many people who have it so much worse that me. My positivity was kidnapped by my evil doppelganger (which may happen again from time to time). Here, I've written a play to illustrate.


Doctor's office.

Doctor: So, as you can see, we have many options for breast reconstruction.

Steph (thoughtfully, fiddling with chin as if stroking a goatee): Ah yes, very interesting.

Doctor: We have a range of implant options, including tissue expanders that are filled gradually to near-permanent implants in silicone and saline.

Steph (nodding her head): Fascinating. And the incision site?

Doctor: Ah, yes, well, there are several options there, too...

Offstage, loud crashing sound. Enter ANTI-STEPH. She is dressed identically to STEPH, but her clothes are torn and dirty. Her hair is a nest of frizz, syrupy Popsicle sticks, tree branches, and live animals. Her eye makeup is smeared across her face. She gnashes her teeth. Her eyes are wild.

Anti-Steph (growling): Raaaaaaar!

Doctor (shocked): Can I help you?

STEPH sits quietly with her hands in her lap.

Anti-Steph: Several options, huh? (Overturning examining table) How about none of the above, mother fucker!

ANTI-STEPH shreds the Shape magazine she has brought in from the waiting room and stuffs the glossy pages in her mouth. She chews loudly and spits the wet, masticated clump at the doctor.

Doctor (to STEPH): Do you know her?

Steph (looking apprehensively at ANTI-STEPH, who is now doing jumping jacks and singing Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It"): (inaudible mumbling)


And scene. I realize now what I'm really mourning isn't my breasts but my option to do nothing. Contrary to popular opinion (many friends and readers have remarked about how proactive I'm being about my BRCA diagnosis), I'm a terribly lazy person. Just ask my husband. I'm a nap champ. I'm a classic why-do-now-what-can-be-put-off-till-the-last-minute-oh-hey-is-that-an-America's-Next-Top-Model-Marathon-on-TV-oh-sweet-it-is-I'm-not-leaving-this-couch-today kind of gal. I make plans and don't do them. For instance, this Sunday, I intended to go to a 5 p.m. yoga class. And guess what? I didn't! I took an nap instead. And guess what happened? Nothing! Not going to yoga didn't make a lick of difference in my life. But when it comes to my boobs, I can't nap through this one. I have to do something. And that disrupts my world order.

Off in a few hours to an MRI! Woo hoo! Go proactivity! (Offstage, Anti-Steph growls.)

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