A right of passage of sorts

Disclaimer: This entry is personal and perhaps disconcerting for those who don't want to know about my boobs.

Today I had my first mammogram. A right of passage for a 40 year old in the USA, in the Netherlands, a woman isn't "qualified" to get one until she is 50. After my sister was diagnosed two years ago, I asked about paying for a mammogram myself, just to get a baseline to measure against later on, but was told it was not possible. Even if I paid myself! The nurses I talked to advised me to lie and make up symptoms so my house doctor would give me a referral, but I couldn't do it.

Then I didn't have to make up symptoms because I found a strange mass on the side of my right breast that hurt when I pushed it. I waited about a month before getting up the guts to make an appointment with my house doctor, and then went in and showed her my business. She thought it was nothing, but with my history, gave me a referral. I felt like I won the golden ticket!

So this morning I went in and got squeezed. It hurt a lot more than I thought it would - I yelled, "Holy crap!" at squeeze #4, much to the surprise of the technician. Then it was done and I was told to get dressed and wait in the waiting room. That was the only time I felt scared -- while waiting. But after five minutes, another nurse came out and told me everything looked fine. Just like that.

I've been thinking about my health a lot lately. Thinking about my dad's slow PD progression. Thinking about my sister. Thinking about the strain on my mom and the effects it must have on her. Thinking about the Pickle who had surgery to remove a cyst on his brain last week. The line we walk is a thin one and every day we can get an "all clear” has to be considered a small victory.