Up next, in another exciting episode of "Breast Center" ...
I went in for my regular mammogram. My Guy was out of town, and the night before the boob smooshing, I woke up screaming because I thought there was a man with a rope standing next to my bed.
Ha. Hahahaha. I might have been a little stressed, even though I haven't had any problems of the boob variety.
But I went to the Breast Center like a normal 40-year-old ladyperson for my almost normal-like mammogram. Except I upgraded to the 3-D mammogram, even though it cost an extra 60 bucks that wasn't covered by insurance. Me and and my mega-dense rack? We're worth it.
The Breast Center was crazy busy. There were lots of women in the waiting room. Per usual, I was the youngest. I played with my phone and I waited. And waited. And started to panic.
When your grandma died of breast cancer and your mom survived a nasty bout of it by the skin of her teeth and you had your first lumpectomy at 23? Well ... you're a poseur.
I was totally pretending that everything was normal and fine. I purposely scheduled my appointment first thing in the morning so I didn't have time to worry about it. But that packed waiting room gave me time to think and panic and stew and wait for the other shoe to drop.
Would this be the year? Would it be now that I find out that ha ha ha, my get-of-jail-free cards are up? I've basically gone vegan, but would that just be a cruel joke that failed to protect me while also severely limiting my restaurant options? Would I be a very, very sad case?
But when the tech called my name, I smiled, and asked how her day was going, and made small talk as we walked down the hall. I put on the cape. My breasts were manipulated between the plastic shelf thingys. It took no time at all and then I got to leave.
As I walked to my car, I looked at the two spots in the parking lot where I have sat in my car and cried. Ahh, first cyst - I was just a baby! And look - where I called my then-fiance in tears over Antoine, the TBD breast lump. Oh, the memories!
I had to be snarky about it or I'd be in my car crying once more. And I've started wearing mascara again, so that just didn't work for me.
I held my breath for 2 days but never got the dreaded "abnormality" phone call. And then I got the letter saying that they didn't see anything but oh, by the way, did you know that your boobs are mega-dense?
Yes. Yes, I know. I never need to carry a hammer. I just use my boob to drive nails.
I try to be a lady of grace and dignity. And I try to be calm and know that Jesus is behind the wheel and I shouldn't stress out because stress causes cysts.
But sometimes? Especially when I'm sitting in the Breast Center waiting room? I freak the fuck out.