Sitting in the Presby Medical Tower uptown Charlotte, waiting to be called in for my re-do of the mammogram, or whatever it is they plan to do to me today. I haven’t the faintest idea, just got the dreaded call back after my mammogram last week: “The doctors haven’t finished reading your results, but we need you to come in.” No recourse, no but I have fibrocystic (aka lumpy naturally) breasts, I don’t have a family history, blah blah blah. They don’t care.
Only had to wait a week for my appointment, and then find the darn place in uptown. It just happens to be the hospital next to the cancer center. Great. No deodorant—that’s the only preparation they tell you. No messing up our machines is how I read that instruction. So here I sit, slightly malodorous, in this onerous duty of responding to doctors. Wondering why oh why did I schedule such a gram during holiday time. Also had my yearly cardiologist appointment last week, and they called back too. At least I think that one is a normal call back to interpret the same ole results.
I’m not too afraid, but you never know, this much I do know. This time they will send the doctor right in. Staring at the ceiling with the one can light in the room shining on my face, the monitor beside me, I recall the many ceilings I’ve faced. Too many tests, too many misdiagnoses. Another reason not to worry. A quick ultrasound reveals a big empty cyst, nothing to worry about. “Do you all validate parking?” There’s nothing else to say. Thank you. The teardrop-shaped cyst says something, something like, nobody deserves this, and yet design intent overcomes us.
Yes, hormonal changes that come with aging can change your fibrocystic breasts. Same time next year (well, I think I’ll push it to January). So I’ll take my breasts, lumps and all and cherish them and get the heck out of here. I wish you the same luck: a boring mammogram, an empty cyst, a tear that never drops. God bless us all with more health than we suspect.