The Adventures of Cancer Bitch

FEBRUARY 8. I AM MILKED

17 of axiomatic these days for liberal Jews. But how can you be a Buddhist when you have so much raw and deep resentment and notenoughness in you? Where is your acceptance of life as suffering? Where is your compassion, and how will you cultivate it? FEBRUARY 8. I AM MILKED You can be, too. You can try it at home. Put cream on your nipple to soften it. Cover with a plastic see-through Band-Aid. Over that lay a warmed purple velvety bag filled with stale-bordering-on-rancid flax seeds. After 10 minutes have someone come in and wipe off the cream with a cloth, roughly but nicely. I’m clearing away dead skin, she’ll say, like a facial. Then get her to massage the nipple, from just outside the areole, then closer in. Have her put a little suction on the nipple and apply pressure. Then watch as 4 cc of thin yellowish liquid comes out of your nipple. She’ll collect it in a tube. If you do it at Fancy Hospital, you’ll receive $50 in the mail in a couple of weeks. If you do it at home, no telling. It’s not really milk—this will not qualify you for a new line of work as a wet nurse. Yes, this is what I did, as part of a study to see if there’s a relationship between breast cancer risk and hormone levels in nipple fluid. When I was first asked to participate, I was hesitant, but then Linc said, It might help someone. I told this to the physician’s assistant who was massaging (the proper term, not milking) my nipple and she said something like, Yeah, sometimes husbands say smart things. I said loyally, I have a very good husband. I haven’t had him for even three years yet; it seems way too soon to joke about him in a general oh-those-husbands way. Especially when he’s been so nicely accompanying me to Fancy Hospital. MORE FEBRUARY 8. BENIGN! The right breast ((o)), that is. The left one will still have to go. Maybe I’ll have a farewell party for it. And serve scoops of peach ice cream with cherries on top. ...