When I walked into the mammography room, I was told that there was an 85% chance that everything was fine.
By the time I walked out, that had been reduced to 10%.
I am 24 and my body knows how to make cancer.
I remember running laps in sixth grade gym when I felt the slightest hint of a jiggle.
“Awesome,” I thought, “I have boobs!”
But as we all know, most thoughts we have at age eleven are critically flawed.
Fast forward to this January. I’d been contemplating breast reduction surgery for a couple of years. To the casual observer, I pass for a 36D, maybe DD depending on the day’s wardrobe. But clothing and flab betray the tininess of my frame.
32FF is not a bra size sold in stores. In fact, 32FF is a size that makes my doctor’s eyes bug in horror.
Ordinarily, I’d have been sent directly to the plastic surgeon — the finest in the land. But given my family history of breast cancer, Doc thought maybe I should get a mammogram first. Just to get the ducks in a row.
Two years ago, my mom had her annual mammogram. The film came back and there were small calcifications on her left breast. Her doctor said, “Your mammogram is bad. We caught it early. I’m sending you to a specialist, do everything they tell you.” A second mammogram, a biopsy, a second surgery to remove any iffy margins, and a round of radiation later, she is cancer-free.
Today my mammogram came back. It looks eerily similar. Calcfications, left breast, three-o-clock.
The radiologist gets a closer look at 8:30 a.m. on the 24th.
Part 2 coming as soon as I know what comes next.
I’ve been thinking that
it would be way awesome if
Al Gore was my dad
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