#lymphadema

It's always a difficult decision, when meeting new people, whether or not to disclose my diagnosis. I'm so far past my initial treatment that I don't look sick, but I'm not your average fit 39 year old. I am arthritic, menopausal, weakened, neuropathy-ridden, and at risk for lymphodema. My body just aches. I wasn't planning to tell my colleagues, cocky, self-obsessed Jaime, or sweet, non-quite-bilingual Serafin. But, then, Jaime wouldn't shut up about his carpal tunnel. It's twelve degrees. He's twenty two, overweight, and breathing his halitosis on me, talking about how he shouldn't have typed with a non-ergonomic keyboard. I needed to shut that shit down. 'I have breast cancer,' I told him. 'I had my chest cut open and operated on seven times. I had all of the lymph nodes in my right armpit removed. If I exert myself too much, that arm blows up like a fluid filled balloon, and I'm in pain and unable to function.' I waited a beat. 'Forgive me,' I continued, 'if I don't listen to you complain about your carpal tunnel.' Serafin hasn't had much to add to the conversation, except he did tell me 'you work good.' Gracias, Sera, gracias.