Fucking bad news

And then, right in the middle of your flow, your world comes to a standstill. Everything you knew fades away, because there it is: the lump, the hardening, the change in your breast that you hear stories about and see in movies, but that you’ve always managed to avoid.

No… this isn’t a sob story. But it is one that could happen to you too.

Monday morning, after a Bind Me Los retreat where I had worked my ass off and put everything I had into the group and the development of the people there, I woke up with a feeling of pressure, a kind of throbbing sensation behind my left nipple.

Hey, I know this feeling. It’s been a long time. My son is seventeen now. It felt like the engorgement I used to get when I was breastfeeding.

I didn’t have time for this. It would probably be fine.

With my head still in the clouds, I tried to slow down, and my post-retreat-or-festival dip day began. After a walk in the woods, where I tried to sort things out in my head by talking out loud to myself, the pain was still there.

And then, at the worst possible moment of that emotionally unstable, dippy day, it hit me.

What if it’s something serious?

What if I have it?

One in seven women gets breast cancer. So why not me?

But no, my mind screamed. I’m negotiating with a TV show. I give tantra and shibari retreats. I’m going to Brazil for a month. My career as an intimacy coach is only just getting started. My podcast STEAM is getting more and more listeners. My son is doing well at school and has all the usual teenage moods, but hey, he’s doing great.

And now I’m going to die?

No way. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

All kinds of things raced through my head. Fear. Me in the cold ground? No, that definitely wasn’t happening. I love saunas, so cremation would have to be the way to go.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.

How about we wait for the doctor first?

The evening was full of tears. I said it out loud:

I’m scared.

Scared of pain. Scared of what might come.

The doctor would simply tell me the next day that there was nothing wrong, and then, against all protocol, I would give her a huge hug. And phew, I would be so happy.

That was how it was going to go.

The doctor was called at 8:00 a.m., and I was there by 10:00.

The first thing I said was:

I’m scared. And you need to look. What do you see?

The examination started, and the doctor couldn’t say with certainty that the lump she felt was benign.

She referred me on.

No. This was not how it was supposed to go.

You were supposed to tell me everything was fine and that I was going to grow very old. Especially because I don’t smoke and I don’t drink.

That was how it was supposed to go.

I didn’t get the hug either.

I went into survival mode and became extremely serious and decisive.

Which hospital was the fastest? Because I wanted this uncertainty gone NOW. And I mean NOW.

Patience has never been my strongest quality, especially when something makes me restless inside my head.

BovenIJ or AVL?

Well. If it turned out to be something, I might as well be at the best cancer center there was.

Fine. That one, then.

And off I went, like a zombie, to my car.

They would call me, and that was all I had to go on. Of course, the doctor had also said that she saw no reason to panic, but that she simply couldn’t be certain.

Everything else disappeared.

The upcoming renovation. Paperwork. All those other trivial things that normally keep your mind occupied but suddenly mean absolutely nothing.

The rest of the day was a blur.

I had to go to the AVL. Not for my mother. Not to visit someone.

For myself.

The day moved from occasional tears to fighting mode.

I taught a Yin class in which I asked the people there to send love to the place in their bodies that needed extra attention.

In my mind, I sent the swelling packing.

Go away. Go away from me. What the hell are you doing here?

Was it all those microplastics after all? Or those few years when I smoked, way back in the day?

I know.

It was that time, thirty years ago, when I had something going on with a married man.

That was it.

His wife had obviously found out, had meanwhile established a direct line to God, and was now up there in heaven. She had gathered some extra powers and, just like Scarlett Johansson in the new Marvel movie, had given me this lump.

That had to be it.

It made perfect sense.

And Scarlett Johansson? She never has anything wrong with her. Nobody ever has anything wrong with them. Only me.

Okay, Sylvie Meis had had something once, but of course she recovered from that too. And if you’re that beautiful and good at languages, then surely something has to go wrong once in a while.

My mind was working overtime, and I was miles away from my centered self.

Wednesday, 6:30 a.m., I trained with my workout buddy and made jokes to cope with it.

I had already decided at Basic-Fit: if it was something, I was going to keep training.

As long as I possibly could, I would drag myself to the gym.

Even if all I could manage was a biceps curl with two kilos.

I would keep training.

Because I needed something to hold on to.

I also bought the new iPhone 17 Pro.

Because obviously I needed to be able to take good pictures of my final chapter.

And you know what?

I’m also going to buy everything at Lidl without looking at the price.

So I won’t have to worry about anything.

I was supposed to transcribe the STEAM podcast with Linda van den Boom.

I couldn’t do it.

Every minute was torture.

Why would I even bother?

Evening came, and I was afraid to go to bed.

I fell asleep on the couch and, after my laptop—with some stupid Willy Wonka game show playing on it—fell off my lap, dragged myself to bed.

I slept.

And woke up while it was still dark.

The day had begun.

I was scared again.

But I told myself:

If it hasn’t been confirmed, then it isn’t there yet.

That works the other way around too.

Right now, I’m talking to a TV channel about a program. But hey, if I don’t have a YES yet—if it hasn’t been confirmed—then I haven’t got the job yet.

I swept my house.

Weighed myself.

Entered the number into my spreadsheet.

Drank tea.

I got more scared.

I was going to do this alone.

I was going to walk into that hospital and be the picture of calm.

I was the yoga teacher and the public speaker who was supposed to help other people.

That was who I was going to be.

I got scared.

My BFF didn’t answer.

I called again.

This is important and I need you now.

Then a text.

“Patries, I have to go to the AVL and I’m scared.”

Patries:

“Well, I would have preferred to hear from you with better news.”

Me:

“Yeah, imagine how I feel. I’d also rather tell you that I’d just been pulled apart by eight firefighters, but that’s not what happened, is it?”

The tears flowed and the jokes kept coming.

Just like at the gym, where I was determined to go into chemo muscular, I still had a few tricks up my sleeve to make my fear a little smaller.

It got later.

The dog still needed to be walked.

The pink leggings.

The skirt with Dora on it.

My leather jacket.

Everything had to make me look young and tough.

Young and tough people don’t get breast cancer.

That’s how it works.

I drove away.

The AVL was getting closer.

Luckily, I missed an exit.

Then the world might suddenly look different and I would be saved.

I would wake up from this dimension and be transported to a world where this fear didn’t exist.

But I still arrived on Plesmanlaan.

Into the parking garage.

Towards the main entrance.

Reception.

I don’t search. I don’t look through an email. I ask.

That’s me.

The young man behind the desk changed his expression when I gave him my date of birth.

You need Early Diagnostics.

His expression went from open, to sympathetic, to strong, to:

Oh dear. So young, and already written off.

Stop looking at me like that, motherfucker.

I’m not dead yet.

Right across from the main entrance was the special Early Diagnostics department.

It was quiet and serene there.

Important things happened here.

At the desk, I kept my sunglasses on while all kinds of things were checked.

They asked whether I agreed to an additional examination for a study.

If it didn’t hurt and didn’t take any extra time, fine.

My images, blood and tissue. Could they use them?

Sure.

What was all that racket next to me?

I couldn’t concentrate.

The employee asked her colleague:

“Anita, could you keep it down a bit?”

Anita heard nothing and was busy talking to a man who presumably wasn’t there for breast cancer. He didn’t seem nervous either, but he was making a hell of a lot of noise.

“ANITA.”

I said it firmly and insistently.

“I’m already freaking out here, please!”

Anita listened.

There was peace.

I was allowed to sit down.

I hadn’t eaten anything, and now that I was there, I wanted to eat because of the stress.

An apple.

Walnuts.

One bite of the apple later, a determined-looking man with gray hair and glasses called my name.

Apple with me.

Apple on the little shelf.

There I stood in front of a spaceship-like machine that I had to press myself against and not move.

It wasn’t too bad.

For a moment my breasts were flattened into pancakes, and the fact that he had to use his arm and upper body to push me into the correct position wasn’t a problem for me.

I get it.

It isn’t easy to get people into the right position.

A little to the left.

It’s a very precise business.

I did exactly what he told me.

My soul depended on it.

Extremely focused, the images were taken.

“And? And? Can you see anything yet?”

“I can only tell you that the images came out well.”

Ah.

Okay.

Right.

There was nothing I could pry out of this man.

Back to the bench.

Music in my ears.

Funny videos on Instagram.

Something that would make me laugh.

Then I tried to get some work done on the free Wi-Fi.

That didn’t work.

Transcribing a podcast while waiting for your ultrasound?

No.

It wasn’t happening.

I turned up the meditation a little more.

Because I didn’t want to hear anything from all the people around me.

“Ms. Oud.”

“Ms. Oud,” it called again.

Yes.

That’s me.

Off to the ultrasound.

And yes, there went the top again.

And now I had to lie down.

A screen.

The humming of the machine.

The last time I had lain like this, I had a baby in my belly and she was moving that thing over my stomach.

Everything had been about the baby then.

Was the baby growing well?

Healthy?

That was seventeen years ago.

The young woman conducting the study did everything by the book and moved over my breast with something that looked like a little rolling pin.

I looked at her screen.

Maybe I should ask.

Could she see anything?

She too refused to be tempted into saying anything that might make me feel better.

And then the radiologist arrived.

You can tell by the way they carry themselves.

You hear it in their footsteps.

These are the people who deliver the good news or the bad news.

They stopped shaking hands years ago.

These specialists used to always be older.

People you addressed formally.

And now this woman was exactly my age.

She came over.

First the gel.

Then over the breast.

Skilled.

Very skilled.

And then came the first beeps.

She was measuring something.

Another one.

And another.

“Wait, aren’t you measuring the same thing again?”

I wanted to say.

Christina, this woman probably knows what she’s measuring.

There was even a ruler involved.

“Could you hold my hand for a moment?”

Luckily, she couldn’t fiddle with the equipment and hold my hand at the same time.

Her warm, soft hand made me feel less nervous.

The rolling and measuring continued.

“Is it bad?”

Tears ran down my cheeks.

Why wasn’t she saying anything?

“Ma’am…”

Oh great.

When they start with ma’am, it’s never good.

“Ma’am, I’ll explain what I’ve seen after the examination.”

Oh, come on.

You’ve been doing this job forever.

Can’t you just say something?

This is nerve-racking.

Just that little bit.

“This is nerve-racking.”

I said it out loud.

The examination was over.

The explanation began.

“I found some muscle ti—”

STOP.

“You are going to tell me first: is it good or bad? First that. Because otherwise I can’t think!”

The radiologist said something along the lines of:

“I have no reason to believe that it’s anything bad.”

Or something like that.

“Wait. Could you repeat that?”

She did.

And then I started crying.

“What was it, then?”

It was swollen lymph nodes caused by fluctuating hormone levels.

“Could it be because of the creatine I recently started taking?”

She didn’t know.

“So it’s good?”

“I believe so.”

“Do you believe that, or do you know that?”

Listen.

You’re the one wearing the white coat.

So I want a clear answer.

Believing is for church.

I want certainty.

“Look, I can’t say with absolute certainty, but I have no reason to think there’s anything abnormal going on.”

Right.

That’s what I needed.

The doctor left.

I chatted a little longer with the assistant and got dressed.

Because all that time I had been topless in that room and walking around.

And yes, I had thrown the towel off too.

I walked outside.

Spread my arms in the air.

Threw my leg over the desk.

And was visibly happy.

I didn’t forget to say “good luck” to an older couple sitting in the waiting room.

I was outside.

And I was healthy.

I wasn’t going to die.

Not yet.

And then the tension came pouring out.

I cried.

I cried those deep, heaving sobs.

I sat down on a bench, my head in my hands.

And I didn’t give a damn who walked past.

This was my tension.

My sadness.

A woman I had seen sitting inside came over to me.

“Did you get bad news?”

I said, between sobs:

“No.”

But I kept crying.

“Well then, you should thank the Lord.”

Right.

That’s when you know you’re dealing with a professional: when someone doesn’t say God but says the Lord.

I looked into her gray-blue eyes.

At her floral blouse.

At her green skirt.

And I saw the same fear.

But in a completely different woman.

“And what about you?”

Because you were sitting there too, weren’t you?

She still needed to have a biopsy, and then it would take another week.

Oh, woman.

How awful.

Jesus was her savior.

And she surrendered herself to Jesus.

And there, on that bench in the sunshine, we started talking.

Not about cancer.

Not only.

We talked about her passion for Jesus.

And I told her about my passion as the Pussy Pastor.

About sexuality.

About the clitoris.

That God had made that too.

And that, if you ask me, it’s a very important part of your body.

She gave me two little booklets.

To give Jesus a place in my life.

Or actually: to surrender myself to Jesus.

I gave her my business card.

And two flyers for Vulva Power on October 2.

“Woman, then you should come along and discover your divine sexuality with other women.”

And the other flyer?

She could put that one up in the church rectory, I suggested.

We agreed that it’s important to feel loved.

And there we sat.

Two completely different women.

With completely different ways of dealing with fear, love and life.

But both sitting on that same bench.

In the sunshine.

I’ll probably never see this woman again.

But how I wish her love and strength in whatever lies ahead.

What struck me, though, was how hard she was on herself.

She felt she hadn’t done enough for the love of Jesus.

Well.

I thought she had done quite a lot.

She took care of the children.

Homeschooled them.

Organized everything.

And her husband only cooked on Sundays.

Of course, he was the best man in the world.

And every other sentence she told me how grateful she was for him.

But what about her?

That didn’t seem to matter quite as much.

She was happy because she could take care of her three children.

And because he was the best.

And since we were already having such an intimate conversation, I asked:

“After all this time, don’t you ever feel like being with someone else?”

“No.”

Because he was the best.

I looked around.

At the bench.

And said:

“You’re right. You can tell just by looking at him.”

“Too bad he’s taken.”

It’s wonderful when you can be that convinced of your own happiness.

We hugged each other.

I tucked a few loving words under her Bible Belt.

And walked away with a smile.

A smile that is still there.

A smile I hope never goes away.

Because what have I learned from these days?

That I’m going to eliminate even more stressful and bullshit things from my life.

Life is too beautiful.

Too precious.

Too fragile.

To waste it on pointless arguments, disagreements, or being right about whatever the hell it is.

I’m choosing happiness.

Love.

Pleasure.

The things that matter.

Because you can suddenly feel a lump.

And suddenly everything stops.

So maybe we shouldn’t wait until that happens.

Maybe we should start choosing what makes us happy now.

The people who love us.

The people we love.

A good conversation on a bench in the sunshine.

A little more softness.

A little more life.

And if I get to make one choice after all:

I choose life.

With everything that comes with it.

Including that delicious clitoris.

Love,

Christina