My breasts hurt.
Not like an “I got punched hard and now I’m sore” hurt or “it’s that time of the month” hurt. It’s like they are trying to scream at me.
I’m delusional. It’s probably nothing.
I went in for my yearly physical that includes the second worst wellness test known to women, the boob squish. All routine. All typical until…
Mrs Gilbert. We would like you to return for another mammogram ASAP.
Well, torture isn’t really torturous unless it’s on repeat. Back to the boob squish facility, I go.
However, this round of torture was coupled with “getting it just right”. No fault to the nurse. She’s doing her job and her job was to make that my pictures showed a clear magnification of some dirty shit that happens to be in my left breast. My girls were squeezed, pushed and mangled all the while I needed to hold my breath and be perfectly still. Kinda like my prom night.
I left the office feeling raw and confused. This isn’t the end of this, right? Something bigger was coming. My breasts are unique little buggers. READ: dense as f.
Mrs Gilbert. Your doctor is requesting a biopsy on your left breast.
Can’t you just squish them again?!?
There’s a pattern of calcified particles. They need to be sampled.
It’s probably nothing…
But “biopsy” means serious business. In the Greek language, “biopsy” means “gigantic fucking needle” That may not be true but it feels true. Speaking of feels, I felt them all.
It was a grueling week from the last phone call to the appointment because there must have been a run of other dirty breasted women in a 50 mile radius of my doc’s office.
Maybe I was trendy.
I walked into the office on the day of my appointment brutally squeezing the bones of my husband’s hand. I had no idea what to expect. The receptionist and nurses talked to me in low solemn voices like it was a secret why I was there. Then I was led into a closed door pre-op room.
I heard “simple procedure” and “done a million times”. Words like “poof” and “pop” described what I’d hear while dropping my left breast into a hole and being as still as a mouse. I didn’t want to see what was happening but I could picture the procedure as she talked about it. Numbing my breast NEEDLE and then a small incision to place the NEEDLE into. More anesthesia from the sample NEEDLE as it’s inserted to the tissue. Needle. Needle. Needles. I lost all the brave I had mustered together. My anxiety medication wasn’t doing shit and I felt a panic attack building up. Yet my blood pressure was 116/86.
So, clearly, it’s probably nothing.
…to be continued…
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