So remember last week when, as Melissa so eloquently put it, I let a roomful of strangers get to second base? And then went for my mammogram? Well I got a call yesterday that they wanted to do an ultra-sound of the right breast. And could I come in the next day.
So this afternoon I went back to the imaging center and I don't mind telling you I was FREAKED OUT. I was all "I'm sure it's nothing" to the Saint, but holy shit people, our odds are one in eight that we'll get breast cancer and they increase as we age. (Ahem, not that I'm old or anything.) And damn, I LOVE my breasts. They're SPECTACULAR. If you run into me at a topless beach? The girls will be OUT.
Aaaaanyway, I have the ultra sound. When the technician was done she went to consult with the radiologist. So I'm sitting in this dimly lit room, looking at a screen, seeing what I think they were "concerned about" and trying to keep my shit together. When the technician walked back in the room, rather than the radiologist, I figured that was a good sign. It was. Cyst. Fluid filled. Not a solid mass. Nothing of concern.
But here's the thing ladies. If it HAD been something, they would have caught it early. Because I went in for my mammogram. So, I'll sleep better tonight. Will you?