I'm telling you. I've had a fantastic week.
It started with a Valentines I can't forget fast enough and a lump in my breast. I'm not talking about the oldish "lumps" where my heart aches for my absent loved one and all that gushy angst. I'm talking about a physical mass obstructing my bustiness.
Like the smart person that I am, I ignored it for about a day then went to get it checked out. First it was off to the O.B. who confirmed I wasn't out of my mind. Then I was passed off to a mammogram technician. For all those ladies who have had this done, you know it is not fun. For those of you who haven't... you are missing out!
A nice lady with no sense of humor and ice cold hands will grab you by the boob, rest you between two plastic plates and then squish you like a slab of meat in a car door. Actually the mental image I got was that fleeting plea for mercy a sandwich utters right before it gets sat on. No angle is missed and after the fourth press, a few bawdy thoughts started running through my mind. Especially when Ms. Handsy got a good hold on my girl to keep me in position while she tinkered with the machine. Apparently, it's not funny to ask if she'd like a little mayo with that boob. Lighten up, lady!
Once the pressing and squishing was done (I now know what emotions a grape must feel in the jelly making process) I was laid out in a dark room for another round of Ms. Handsy to glop goo on me for an ultrasound.
Oh. There's the mayo. Oops.
All in all, after I dressed and sat waiting for the ax to fall, I got a call from my mom. Personally, I wasn't going to tell my mom anything until I knew the mammogram results. Nothing against her personally, but she is the king, queen and country of worry and I didn't want to freak her out. In less than a minute via whispered conversation, my mom got out of me what I was doing, why I was there and then began the HOLY MOLY, WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?! part of the conversation. I should have told her I was sunning myself in Boca Raton and left they boys home to fend for themselves. I might have saved an eardrum.
But there was no reason to worry. The doc came to tell me I don't have cancer. I promptly got dressed, went home and partied. My brush with fate was too close for comfort, especially since the doc's parting shot out the door was that only a scant 1% come through her office with a fatty benign tumor. Cue me hyperventilating.
So, while I know it is not October and Brest Cancer Awareness month, my advice to you is... Go get your girls squished! And don't forget the mayo.