“… that doesn’t mean we have to eat it!”

i’ve written about my ‘breast cancer grannies’ before. “The 3B’s”, which stands for “Booze, Brie and Breasts”. Leontine and i drank our way through it, diagnosed within 2 weeks of each other, and meeting through an article written about me in the local paper. We’d meet up every month, drink a bottle of wine, bash some yummy brie, and just yak for a couple of hours.

Who needs therapy?  A support group?  We were doing our bit to keep the good folks at the Banfi Le Rime winery in business!

We added Doris two years later, when she got the bad news at 68 that she had acquired a pesky cancer nugget.  Susan joined us last year – she’d had cancer about 10 years ago, but mostly wanted to hang out with us because she’d heard we were goofs…

i’m the ‘kid’ as they are all in their late 60’s.  This minor fact has made exactly zero difference in the amount of fun we have together – or how much we all can’t wait to meet up.  On a dreary, rainy, chilly day in early March, we all couldn’t WAIT to get to the bar of our regular restaurant tonight.

Our monthly gathering. Susan’s husband just got the prostate cancer diagnosis, which got Leontine’s husband last summer. After our “happy hour”, the two gents were meeting up with their wives for dinner so they could walk through the details together… over a decent meal and better wine.

Our conversations are all over the map – a lot of travel, grandchildren, children, gossip, bullshit and whatnot. With the occasional mention of that thing that brought us together in the first place. Tonight was no different.

Doris had just returned from a trip to Sonoma, California, and was sharing her latest travel headache. Going through security at O’Hare airport, she was directed to the millimeter wave imaging system. With a mastectomy over under her belt two years ago, she knew what was coming when they asked her to step aside for the TSA grope.

She regaled us with the tale of the idiot TSA agent.

Doris:  So this woman is feeling me up, and asks if i have something metal in my bra.  I tell her “I had a mastectomy, and I wear a prosthesis”.  This idiot asks me “Here?”  I wanted to say “No, honey, in my ass!  Where else would it be?”

We laughed like schoolgirls.  Leontine went on to suggest that no one could be that stupid – not even a TSA agent. 

Leontine:  Maybe she thought you’d said colonoscopy….. I mean… colon….. colo… Shit!  What’s the word?

Only halfway through our first bottle of wine, we were all struggling for the word – but somehow found it simultaneously, shouting in chorus “Colostomy!”

One of those moments when the entire establishment had gotten preternaturally quiet a microsecond before.  We paused…

daisyfae:  Perhaps we should shout that a little louder – i think there were a few folks in the dining room who didn’t hear it!

As we snorted and hooted at our goof, it occurred to me that there are women who have been down this road, and consider themselves victims of cancer. 

There weren’t any of those broads at my table tonight…

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This post is dedicated to a lovely man, recently returned to the blogosphere.  His words get stuck inside my head sometimes and rattle around for days, sometimes weeks and months.  He recently told me “In life, at times, we all fall in the shite, but that doesn’t mean we have to eat it.”  Damn straight, brother Jimmy.