Some of you have are kind enough to know what is going on in my life and actually follow up on it. Thank you, ladies. It's a pleasure to know you. As you have asked, I'd like to let you know that I did have my umpteenth mammogram in May. The hospital mailed me the Mammo Gram a couple of weeks back. Only I haven't really felt like talking about it much.
Now, I don't really like the Mammo Gram. It has delivered unwanted, unexpected news more than once. The first time it told me that I had abnormal results before my doctor could get in touch with me. That wasn't a fun day. Once it told me I had a BIRAD score. Last time it informed me that my BIRAD score had increased. So, when I saw the Mammo Gram in the mail, I got a little nauseous. I took it into Mr. Incredible's office and sat down in one of the comfy chairs. Pulling my feet up into the chair and tucking them underneath me, I showed him the envelope. He asked if I was okay. I nodded. I quietly and slowly ripped open the envelope and fished out the dreaded letter. Always folded in tri-fold, I right it so that the letterhead will face me when I open the first fold.
Your recent mammogram was normal/benign. Blah. Blah. Blah. WHO CARES what the rest of the letter said. Normal and benign. A HUGE relief, blessing, praise.
Whew!!!! I've been waiting two years for a letter like this one.
But, then, I find myself saying, "Whoa." Am I to believe that digital radiology technology has advanced so far in the past six months that I can go from needing to visit a breast surgeon again to not even having a BIRAD score? I begin to wonder if the letter is wrong or the images were of the wrong section of my breast. Maybe they have finally figured out what "normal" is for me. I mean I do want to hear "normal." I do want to save $$$ by returning to a normal schedule of once a year boulder crushing appointments. Mainly, I want to quit focusing on these lobes of lumpy flesh that hang in front of my chest muscles.
Before I get any further, let me say that my relationship with "the twins" (not identical, btw) has always been your standard love-hate. I vividly remember their entrance into my world. I discovered that they were growing when one of them collided with the banister at my best friend's home. Pain is not an accurate description. Having a breast bud meet wood is actually a fifteen on a pain scale of one to ten. It makes childbirth look like a cakewalk. I just got a chill thinking about how much it hurt, and it is THIRTY YEARS LATER. Wow. So, I rubbed the newly injured area as one might rub any bumped area on the body. My fingers are halted by a lump that I knew had not been there a short time ago. Being the hypochondriac that I am, I IMMEDIATELY jump to the conclusion that I have breast cancer at the ripe old age of ten. If the pain wasn't enough to kill me, the cancer surely would.
Breasts were just a little too much drama as far as I was concerned. And then they grew a little and the training bras were replaced with actual brassieres with underwires and four hooks. A cute little boy named Jeff began teasing me that I was a pirate's dream and laughed hysterically when he told his friends the punchline: a sunken treasure. Or the other one he liked was that I was a carpenter's dream--flat as a board. Only, I wasn't flat. I was really the only girl in the fifth grade who had anything that needed to be "trained," so I told him he was an idiot. And inside I got pretty upset because I was shy and these bra occupants were attracting unwanted attention. And they still attract a good bit of male attention in the bathing suit or in a sweater buttoned up to my nose. They just do. I'm pretty well used to it now, but every now and again, it still catches me offguard.
I guess I should have known way back in elementary school that these things were gonna cause a ruckus. They make my shirts gape open. They flop up and down when I run (so I rarely run... yeah, that's my excuse...). Some days I think I would like it better if they just got lopped off. Then, I remember that I fed each of my baby darlins with them while dreaming about who they would grow up to be and who they would marry and thinking about how much I loved the tiny little person squirming in my arms. I cried tears of joy and thankfulness with those babies at my breasts and praised God for letting me have not one, not two, but three unique opportunities to be face-to-face, skin-to-skin, belly-to-belly with these people who once grew inside me. I know breastfeeding is not for everyone, but I loved it. Miss Proper nursed until she was two and a half, RNR until she was eighteen months, and Bonus until he was two. RNR got cut off early because she kept biting me; that gets old real quick.
And then, there's that part with my husband and how he thinks they are a pretty interesting part of me that he would sorely miss. With that, there's the whole deal of how they make me feel feminine.
So, I go to see my specialist on Thursday, and she will tell me what she thinks of the latest pictures of my ducts and calcifications and masses. And hopefully the "Whoa" can be a full "Whew."