Under a Red Roof

Yup, them’s me boobs.  I’m putting them in your face (“Do you want a Christmas card?  Here’s your Christmas card!”) not to show off their perkiness or the pretty sweater, though it is a lovely color.  J.Crew has my number, to be sure.  No, I am putting them in your face in hopes of saving you a little anxiety.

I had my first mammogram last Thursday.  They squished my boobs good and proper.  Ouch!  Then, yesterday, in the midst of my tomato canning extravaganza (seven jars of chutney and nine jars of plain-old chopped – huzzah!), I got the call that the radiologist needed additional images.  Ugh.

I wasn’t exactly surprised.  The nice lady who took the pictures started acting different after that first picture of my right boob.  Though I certainly hoped it was my imagination.  I have a writer’s mind, you know.  I can make grand palaces of match sticks.

Luckily, they could get me in today, so I wouldn’t be sweating bullets and creating even more writerly scenarios in my fertile mind over a period of days.  As it was, I thought of hardly anything else, didn’t sleep very well, and then, when I did, I had a nightmare about being cut open while I was awake and could feel it!  Good times…

Anyhoo, I got there early and looked at Architectural Digest without really looking at it, biding my time.  Then when my name was called, and I got to the little room with the machine, I started to cry.  I did not want breast cancer.  One of my best friends just went through it, and it was no party.  No siree, Bob.  So, Diane, the technician, literally held my hand and walked me through, step by step.  It turns out my breast tissue is very thick and at certain angles doesn’t look so healthy.

She took more pictures, squishing my boob even more than the first lady.  It’s not like there’s much to squish, either, so it hurt even more than the first time. Double ouch!  Then I went back to the waiting room, had a cup of hot cocoa, wished for the hubster, and hoped for the best.

The next nice lady to help me was Kim.  She let me know that I do, indeed, have very dense breasts and with that often comes this business of double checking, but I am a-ok.  Relief!  I hugged her and cried again.  She also said to expect these kind of results in the future, so maybe I wouldn’t panic quite so much if I got a call back next year.  It’s just a precaution.  So a wish for me and you: Let’s not make mountains out of little dense boobs, shall we?