All clear

Last week I went in for a mammogram.  On Mother’s Day Matt handed me a letter asking me to come back for more tests.  My comment at the time ran along the lines of, “Are you fucking kidding me?  I don’t fucking have time for this fucking shit.”   

Hey, no one promised you great prose or deep thoughts here.    

The dark voice in my head decided that because the universe is stalking us and since my girl’s bloodwork came back clear, it must have set its sights on me instead and I was going to end up bald, tragically waste away, and orphan my children.

I also instantly decided that I wasn’t all that attached to my boobs.  They had failed to land me any Playboy gigs and, despite many tears and herbs and lactation consults, failed to fulfill their primary duty of feeding my babies.  Double mastectomy?  No problem.  Cut ‘em off. 

What I was really freaked out about was the ultrasound.  Which is about the most innocuous, peaceful test you can get – dark room, nice pillow, warm gel, little wand… it’s almost like getting a massage.  Except at one perfectly routine ultrasound I found out my son had died.  And at another found out my girl’s heart could let her die too. 

Apart from a brief expletive on FB, I downplayed the call back.  My peeps on FB assured me it happened all the time and was perfectly routine.  They would have called if it were anything serious.  I am not a wee fragile flower and refuse to freak out over remote hypotheticals when there is real actual tragedy in the world.  (At least I won’t do it publicly.)  I joked with Matt about the life insurance payout and reminded him to get a pre-nup so the hot nanny doesn’t run off with the kids’ money.  But when alone in the shower and in the car, I’d choke up – not about the leaving my children or the hot nanny or dying, but about being in that fucking room again and getting more bad news.  A perfectly normal response, right?  No? 

I believe that is what they call an emotional trigger. 

I went back yesterday and was smooshed and squeezed in a highly intimate and unnatural manner and they pronounced me good to go. 

Right.  No big deal.  So unexciting, in fact, the additional films did the trick and I didn’t even get to the ultrasound.  *phew*

I went home, went running on my achy feet because I am alive goddammit and I can, had a glass of wine, and pondered the possibility that perhaps the universe is not stalking us after all and perhaps - just maybe - I might have some residual anxiety issues instead. 

Not my boobs.

Obviously.