So I had a mammogram on Friday. This was the mammogram that was to replace last week’s mammogram, where I stupidly showed up at the wrong clinic.

I went into the clinic, waited twenty minutes, put on my little cape (a sleeveless cape, in which the girls were most unattractively hanging out the sides), and waited another twenty minutes while flipping through a year-old People and watching the women around me re-adjusting their capes for minimum boob exposure.

Then it was time, and I stood shivering at the machine while the technician smooshed my breasts into all sorts of amazing positions and took pictures.

Once you’ve had something implanted in your chest (the heart monitor, not implants), all of this is no big deal. It’s less than a small deal.

Then I was sent in my drafty little cape to an inner waiting room, where a drafty-caped woman told me all about her husband’s death and her lack of health insurance. People tell me stories all the time. I guess I just have a story-liking kind of face.

I waited another twenty minutes and was then ushered into the hallway by the technician.

“We saw something.”

I just stood there.

“We need to take more pictures.”

I nodded.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

I nodded again, frozen to the spot.

All I could think about was cancer. My mother, who had breast cancer in 1991. My neighbor, who had breast cancer soon after. The chemo. The radiation. The hair loss. The puking. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring at a chart which outlined the five stages of breast cancer. Stage 0 – You’re probably gonna make it. Stage I – good luck to you. Stage II – Not great. Stage III – REALLY not great. Stage IV – You’re fucked.

I read these over and over and over again, trying to breathe, and then the tech called me into the mammogram room.

On the computer screen was a breast, my breast. On that breast was a spot about the size of a dime.

I stared.

“This is the area we’re concerned about. You see?”

I saw.

She took more pictures, contorting my boobs into ever-more-uncomfortable positions, and I tried to breathe. Then she once again led me into the quiet little waiting room to wait.

This is where people get The News, I thought. This is it.

I waited for twenty minutes. I read a Parents magazine, looking at all of the cute, colorful little toddlers. I cracked my knuckles.

Then, a woman called my name. “Jennifer?”

It was a doctor. I almost passed out, sure that I was to be given the worst news of my life.

“You’re fine.”

Dracula movie “WHAT?”

“You’re fine. We didn’t see anything in the new pictures.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes. You can go get dressed now.”

I smiled weakly, briefly thought WHAT THE FUCK, HOW DOES A SPOT DISAPPEAR; and then I started to bawl.

I cried the whole way home, probably scaring my neighbor to death. I cried for an hour after I got home. I don’t know why I cried like this – out of relief? Pent-up anxiety? Sheer emotional overload?

I don’t know, but damn, did I cry.

I don’t think that I should have been told or shown that there was a weird spot until the second round of pictures were taken. I think that this freaked me out unnecessarily, and for no good reason. Personally, I think the technician, while a very nice lady, should have kept her mouth shut until the second set of films came back.

Thankfully, it’s over, but it isn’t over for the millions of women who have had, have, or will have breast cancer. This number includes my mother, my wonderful neighbor, and countless other mothers and sisters and daughters and friends.

Team America: World Police video

My friend Bibliogrrrl, who I have known since high school, recently found out that her mother has Stage I breast cancer.

She is currently raising money for Gilda’s Club Chicago, a wonderful organization that does a great deal for people with cancer and their families. She is also going to shave her head in support of her mother.

If you would like to donate and help her cause, please click bibliogrrlgoesbald, which will take you straight to the donation page.

Please give if you can, and if you would, take a moment to remember those families dealing with breast cancer.

Happy Monday, and thank you.

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