|OFF THE BEATEN TRACK
|Year : 2017 | Volume
| Issue : 2 | Page : 489
Autobiography of a bosom
Consultant Histopathologist, Prince Aly Khan Hospital, Mazagaon, Mumbai, India
|Date of Web Publication||21-Feb-2018|
Source of Support: None, Conflict of Interest: None
|How to cite this article:|
Chinoy R F. Autobiography of a bosom. Indian J Cancer 2017;54:489
Like two buds I appear at puberty,
When my ductules start branching like filigree,
With maddening haste they like roots ramify
To form perfect lobules that just stupefy.
But with youth comes the cycles of hormones,
I bloom but as times I do groan,
Little lumps bumps and cysts,
Adenosis, fibrosis, all add to my juvenile woe list.
It's not that I like to house “mice”
That will slip neath the fingers like ice,
But fibroadenomas and cystosarcomas,
Might grow in my tissues like boulders!
Comes the marriage of ova with sperm,
And I reach my full height at term.
I'm now in full glory, so ripe full and sweet,
No wonder with trouble I am bound to meet.
A few ducts choke up, and a galactocoele grows,
Thick curdled white clots, now how will milk flow?
With the thrust of the scalpel the dam will release,
It's burden of curds and of clots and of cream.
Next trouble shoots up with a nipple discharge,
When bloody it generates panic at large,
The cause is a willowy polyp so slim,
Thank God it's not Paget or my fate would be grim.
To the sounds of sweet praise I am used to,
After all with my contours it's quite right too:
So a blow to my tissues is too cruel and rude
When my “fat” starts “necrosing”, why shouldn't I brood?
Then the surgeons jump in and proclaim it's a lump!
Don't cut, don't be hasty, its only a bump.
My pathologist friends then reveal the whole truth,
But for them I'd be slashed and turned out for a brute.
Soon I come face to face with my fate.
When I clash with inherited traits.
Oncogenes Cerb B2, how I hate to submit to
The monster that starts within me too.
Is it cancer at last that will bear me aloft?
To the realms of the Lab where they'll cut and dissect,
Pickled and wet will I land in a jar?
Dear God have a care, will be my beauty be marred?
Then it's cancer at last that I fearfully face,
With a scalpel at first I am cut up –then laced.
Radiation then with precision and grace,
Soon rids me of cancer to leave not a trace.
Now scarred but intact my blessings I gauge,
Not Halstead or Patey for me at this stage.
Things could have been worse but for Veronesi
Three cheers for the man who for bosoms did care.