A little story
For
months, I've had off-and-on pain in my right breasticle.
A
week before Christmas, that pain intensified.
As
did my self-checks.
And
my Google searches for Arrested Development GIFs labeled "Say Goodbye To
These!"
I
found a lump.
I
monitored it.
I
made Erin monitor it.
I
constantly wandered topless into the living room or the bathroom or wherever
she was, fingers pinpointing it, hoping she'd tell me she couldn't feel it, or
that I was crazy, or that it was gone.
I
showered with it at 3 am.
I
fretted over it.
I
waited "through a cycle" to see if it would disappear.
It
didn't.
I
made an appointment.
I let
two strangers totally get to, like, second base with me.
They
decided I needed a mammogram.
I
made that appointment.
I
dreamed I had a double mastectomy. And all my shirts fit better.
The
Breast Center was like a weird spa. Harp music. Everything decorated in pink.
Cozy robes kept in a warmer.
The
whole "spa" vibe disappeared when I let another stranger stick my
boobs in a pancake machine. Eight different times.
The
radiologist wanted an ultrasound after reading the mammogram.
And I
figured, "What's letting another stranger squirt jelly all over my lady
pillow and then sliding a probe all around it?"
She
felt the lump. She probed it. She took a lot of pictures.
And I
just kept looking at the ultrasound screen thinking it was strange to not see a
baby up there. Strange that a baby wasn't growing in my breast.
Then
I just laid there and waited.
Then I got the results.
And my boobs are fine, if not a little
fibrocystic. There's a lump there, but it's not cancer. This could have ended
differently. This could have ended how it did for my grandmother, and countless
friends, and friends' relatives. And I know now, more than ever, that early
detection is the key. So I'm begging you, lady friends, to feel yourselves up,
or find someone to do it for you. But get to know your tracts of land. Pay
attention so you never have to flash someone and declare, "Say goodbye to
these!"
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