Boobs – An update


First of all, I want to thank those who sent their good wishes and positive thoughts my way.  These past months haven’t been easy.  Thank you.

When I finally got my sonomammogram results, I felt myself get anxious while opening the envelope.

“[…] there are no solid or liquid-filled cysts.  There is architectural distortion.”

Architectural what?

I quickly googled the term and got a little more frightened with every link I clicked.  Architectural distortion is of concern, according to the websites I found.  It is the third most popular sign of breast cancer.  I couldn’t help but cry in front of my computer.  The thought of developing cancer at my age tore me apart.  My mom thought I was overreacting and tried to calm me down.  I didn’t care if I hadn’t yet talked to my doctor about the results, the C-word scared me to death.

I tried setting an appointment with the same doctor as last time, but she was vacay-ing somewhere in the US.  I asked to set it with anyone available and all I got was: “The doctors are completely booked this week and will go on vacation this weekend.  They’ll be back on the 17th.”

Waiting until June 17th was not an option for me.  My only chance at getting an appointment was to harass the receptionist each day hoping for a cancellation.

Monday came, Monday went.  I called throughout the day and could sense the irritation in the receptionist’s tone.   My mom called me at 9:00 AM on Tuesday saying there was a slot at 10:00.  Someone had cancelled.  I got up, showered, didn’t have breakfast and ran to my car, which of course, wouldn’t start.  It took me several minutes of uncontrollable anger to get the damn thing to move.  I was already late.

I got to the hospital at 10:15 and spent about 5 minutes in the elevator thanks to people who get on it just to go one floor up.

I got there, paid for my “consultation,” handed over my results and waited.  That wait was the slowest half hour of my life.


Finally, the assistant called me and led me to one of the examination rooms.  Another 15 minutes passed and one of the oldest doctors came in.  I told him about my breasts and the possible causes, according to my original doctor.  He asked for the x-rays and took a long time to look at them.

“You’re ok.  You’re young, only 21 and in this case ‘architectural distortion’ means difference in density between breasts.  It’s normal.”

I questioned him several times explaining the intense pain I felt not so long ago and the lumps I discovered.  He said that if the pain has reduced and the lumps don’t feel as hard as they did weeks ago, it’s not anything malignant.  He suggested taking vitamin E if the pain came back (if I decided to start drinking coffee again—Yes, please.)

I thanked him many times and got out of the office with a smile on my face.  I had to believe him because he was old, had gray hair, which meant he was experienced.  (2 points for my logic– haha.) Nobody was waiting for the elevator, just me.  I got in it alone and took advantage of that fact by grabbing my boobies and thinking: “You babies are here to stay.”

Thanks to this scare, I learned the importance of checking for lumps in the shower and made a promise to myself: get my breasts professionally checked at least twice a year.  It also made me appreciate life and realize how little I’ve done to leave my mark.  I will not take life for granted anymore and won’t waste so much time in front of a TV.  I want to experience life and be someone.

The first thing I did when I got home wasn’t watch TV.  I brewed myself a cup of delicious coffee and looked out the window to appreciate the daylight I used to take for granted.



If you’re one of the few people that enjoyed reading my previous blogs — and my MySpace blog (old times!), you’re probably wondering why I constantly jump to other websites and why I named this one after a type cherry. Well call Doc, ’cause we’re about to hit 88! 

I started blogging when I accepted the fact that writing was probably the only thing I was going to be good at.  I was about 14 years young and an old friend made me a MySpace account.  I could have sworn I was going to be a sucky poet for the rest of my life, because poems were the only thing I posted.  Most of them were about teen angst, of course, but one of them was about, prepare yourself—love.  Yep, sourpuss Melly wrote about the L word, and no, not lesbian.  (Note to self: Watch an episode of two of The L Word.  Apparently, it’s good.)

I had just broken up with my second boyfriend, but my first crush and wrote “A Love Story.”  Long story short, I was backstabbed by my Spanish teacher’s daughter, because a months later, “A Love Story” was published under her name.  Needless to say, I was angry, not entirely because of her, but mostly because of myself.  I didn’t do anything, I didn’t fight it, just cried about it.  You got to keep in mind that I went to a school in which you’re story was the absolute truth if a faculty member made you.  Or—if you had a decent amount of money.  If you did, you could get away with anything.  Sadly, my parents actually worked their asses off to keep me in that hell of a school, while others made donations towards new basketball courts (which took over 25 years to make—No, I’m not kidding), in order to be friendly with the principal.  I stopped writing for a long while and I honestly think that was the last poem I wrote for pleasure and not as an assignment.  

Years passed and it was college application season.  I was in a long distance relationship with a hairy asshole and of course, being a hopeless romantic, I filled out an application for one college only—the one he was enrolled in.  Truthfully, I didn’t do it because of him.  I also did it because it’s the only university that offers a BA in Creative Writing.  Of course, like any movie that is truly based on reality, he broke up with me by cheating on me.  I started college as a loner and still am.  I can’t make friends because of my social awkwardness.  I had it easy in school, because you are forced to socialize with the other 61 students in your grade, after all, you met them in Kindergarten and you would say goodbye to them on the last day of Senior year.  Yup, it was one of those schools. 


My high school self wearing a pink water bra

After taking a few writing courses, I noticed I was rusty, my humor was gone and words didn’t come to me naturally.  I started a blog at blogspot.  MySpace days were totes over.  I decided I was stupid enough to have a domain, so was born.  My ass is huge and constantly in people’s mouth (not the salad kind of way!)  The subtitle was “The fabulous things that come out of Melly’s butt,” you know, as in shit?  Because my thoughts are shit?  Yeah? Ok.  Glad we could clear that up. 

Just a few posts later, I heard that poem stealer learned about my new blog, so I pooped my very last poop and got scared shitless.  I quickly deleted every single post and now is empty.  I thought long and hard about making another one and decided that I had to.  My writing was getting worse and worse and needed improvement.  I had to exercise writing every single say even if it meant writing about clothing, or shoes (which is what I now enjoy writing about).  So, here we are, at WordPress and I plan on staying.  Go ahead, take your nasty smelling fake Jeffrey Campbells off you bought through eBay and get comfortable.  Now to the yummy part, Maraschino. 

After realizing I was still friendless and wasting too much money shopping online by staying up to get that damn cherry printed, twist tie top, I decided to look for friends.  It sounds way creepier than it is.  I had a love for pin ups and rockabilly clothing.  I loved the idea of being able to wear clothing that embraced my bum.  Luckily, I stumbled upon a group on Facebook called “Puerto Rican Pin Ups.”  Pin Ups?  In Puerto Rico?  Yeah baby!  I was accepted into the group and met amazing girls!  We needed pin up names, so I came up with a shitty one: Melly Cherry.  I wanted one that rhymed but after a few months, I got sick of it and came to the conclusion that it sounded like a teen on MySpace with a pornographic looking picture – Licking a cherry flavored lollipop or something like that.  I still wanted the element of red to be present in my name because of my fake red hair, so I thought Maraschino would do the job. 


Fake red hair


My present self


With my new awesome friends

Ironically, I hate the taste of cherries but at the same time, I think they’re the sexiest fruit—Fuck strawberries!  I now represent an erotic fruit!  So, I hope you like the taste of cherries, my (almost) life story and the taste of my blog.  Keep biting!