I thought "We Built this City" was a good idea. And it was at first. It brought me back to my sophomore year in high school. It has a good beat. etc.
But now I can't get the f-ing song out of my head. It's torturing me. I'm convinced this torture is divine punishment for allowing myself to indulge in such incredible cheese.
So the only thing better than actually getting a mammogram is getting called back by the radiologist and being told you have to come back and do it all over again. More slides needed--now not later--no, not next month--NOW.
Here's the thing. My boobs are so, so, so small. They basically don't appear to exist, which is astoundingly ironic to those who have known me my whole life. Right, Ange? Currently it is my assessment that I look like a boy. Only my long hair and the crow's feet around my eyes reveal my sex and age. How could these microscopic boobies harbor anything suspicious and terrible?
I digress. Today was the special day I was assigned to have my boobs mashed again. Actually, just my left boob. Apparently the right one is in the clear. I took Advil before I left this time. I've been told it would help. It didn't.
After the torture of the boob mashing was over, I was asked to wait. The doctor wanted to look at the slides immediately. Don't move. Don't take off that hip mammography cape. Sit. Stay.
I sat for a long time.
Then I sat for more time. and a little more.
I watched the news and heard all about Britney and the weather and how to cut children's hair without them freaking out and I got to pore over the new issue of Triathlete Magazine that had come to my door just the day before. It wasn't so bad. Better than working, right? Finally, I fell asleep in the waiting room, mouth open and drooling, my cape falling every which way. I'm sure my non-existent chest was exposed to the world.
Finally they called me in. Nope. You can't go home. Come here, my child. Time for an ultrasound.
The ultrasound made me feel very sad. The last time I had had an ultrasound was when I was pregnant with my third child, Lara. How could I be here under these circumstances? How is it possible?
The technician did her thing, and then called the doctor in for a look.
The doctor wasn't sure. It looked like a cyst, but not a normal cyst. It must be a COMPLICATED cyst, I was told. She would need to consult another physician. The physician was called. More waiting.
The physician came. Yes. It did indeed look a very COMPLICATED cyst. Biopsy needed. Let's to it today. Now. This hour.
Mary, can you stay?
I say, "You know, I don't know if this makes a difference here, but right where you have found this COMPLICATED cyst? That's the place I always had a plugged duct when nursing my children. Yes, right there. I had a number of mastitis over my nursing years, the last just a year and a half ago, all with their origin right there. Yes, there. Exactly there."
"Hmmmm. Well. Yes. Actually, that's interesting.
Maybe it isn't a COMPLICATED cyst. Maybe it isn't a cyst at all. Let's look again.
"Yes, see how it's elongated, kind of like a, um, mammory duct? Yes, and see how there's DEBRIS moving inside it? Hold your breath for a minute, Mary. Breathe in and hold. That's right.
pause. pause. hmmmm. pause.
"Yes. That's a plugged duct. With debris. Do you concur doctor? When did you stop nursing, Mary?"
And that was that.
All that panic. One technician. Two doctors. It's a duct still clogged, one year post nursing. And there's still some DEBRIS in there. That's very pleasant. What the hell is debris? Really sour milk? Yummy. Aren't I HAWT? Me with my boy chest and mammary ducts with ancient DEBRIS inside?
I must return for yet another ultrasound in three months, just to be sure. Perhaps by then the DEBRIS will have moved on. But I celebrated my presumably clean bill of health by skipping the rest of school, getting a facial, buying myself a new shirt and a pair of dark purple pants and having a latte and two chocolate cinnamon cookies at Starbucks.
Sigh. Aging. It ain't pretty.