Part 1: Our Intrepid Heroine Receives An October Surprise of Her Very Own.
October 3, 2016. My plan for the day: routine annual mammogram, lunch with a friend, then bra shopping. Two chores bookending some incentive. I’d neglected the much-needed new bras for far too long, so I was muscling myself into a day of purposeful self-care, since theoretically life is definitely too short for uncomfortable foundation garments. In reality, single parenthood had been shoving me around according to its whims, with little consideration given to my own comfort. But enough was enough. There was a certain satisfying symmetry to Boob-Lunch-Boob. So be it.
I’d scheduled the mammogram after receiving the second of two letters from the hospital nudging me. The first letter had apparently been sent in May, reminding me it was time for a six-month follow-up to the previous six-month follow-up to a diagnostic mammogram from the previous June. Confused? So was I. The radiologist had told me the cyst they’d been following had gotten smaller, confirming how benign it was, and I should just wait until I could jump back into my annual screening cycle that Fall. So I’d tossed the letter in the trash.
But then the second reminder letter came. With an internal Oh All Right, I called and scheduled the damn thing, making sure to clarify this was just a regular annual. Obviously they hadn’t gotten the memo on a number of things about me: I’d been following the radiologist’s instructions. It was just a cyst. I wasn’t in the least bit concerned.
And I was entirely, completely, thoroughly sick of anything to do with cancer.