THE BLOG
08/21/2014 04:55 pm ET Updated Dec 06, 2017

Not THIS time, Breast Cancer

I have been having mammograms since I was 30, and I am just a LITTLE BIT older than that now. OK, I will be 43 in two weeks. My mom had breast cancer in her 40's, and a cousin on my mom's side had it in her 30's. So, it's kind of scary and my doctor likes to stay on top of things.

I had my regular annual mammogram last week, and I was waiting for the all-clear email that I usually get, when instead, the phone rang. I hate the phone all the time, but especially when it is the mammogram place calling the day after my test. That is never good.

When I got the call back for an additional mammogram and sonogram, the receptionist informed me that the radiologist saw a "mass." My stomach immediately cramped.

Note to medical professionals: Do not use the word MASS when calling about a mammogram unless you are sure that it is something to worry about. Say, "the picture was not clear," or something like that. Mass is a scary word to someone who just had a test to detect CANCER.

Even with the use of the word mass, I was able to calm myself down. I wasn't REALLY worried until my PRIMARY care doctor's office called to be sure I was going back. This is not even the doctor who ordered the test. Plus, this doctor is usually very mellow about everything. When I was freaked out about having a DVT and being on blood thinners, this doctor told me to go ahead and shave my legs with a real blade because I wasn't going to bleed out from nicking myself. (Note: The same cousin who had breast cancer ended up passing away from bleeding internally while on blood thinners.) So, if my super mellow doctor was concerned about me going back for round two of boob torture, I sure as sh*t was worried. I grabbed the first open appointment they had, which was FIVE days away.

That following Monday, as luck would have it, The Huffington Post emailed me to see if I would be available to chime in on annoying social media friends on Huffington Post Live at 2:35 pm ET, or RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF MY MAMMOGRAM APPOINTMENT. Yes, I understand that the children in Iraq are just weeping for my little scheduling problem. "Poor American lady can't do TV because she is having a modern medical test in a building with a roof."

Well, since I had already worried about breast cancer all weekend, and since my husband cancelled a business trip to go with me to that appointment, and since I was probably too stressed to be funny, and since I would, oh say, be topless at that exact time, I said no to HuffPost Live.

For five days, between the call and my appointment, I prepared for the worst.

I envisioned arguing with the surgeon on why I needed to have both breasts removed, as my mother had done when she was diagnosed.

I planned on finding a new surgeon after imaginary first surgeon said no because he was an a**.

I pictured arguing with my insurance company who would refuse to pay for my double mastectomy and insist I only needed the cancerous one removed, which would make me the uniboober.

I imagined chemo, and vomiting, and laying on the couch while watching an endless stream of Lifetime movies with a cat or three lying on me.

I thought about having to cancel my next hair appointment because I would not have hair. I love my hair appointments.

I thought about vomiting. Again.

I wondered where the damn ice bucket challenges were for this. Maybe I would do a barf bucket challenge. I wondered if that would go viral and finally get me on The Today Show.

I posted about it on Facebook, even though I said I wouldn't.

I blamed myself. I don't eat that well. I don't exercise enough. I drink more than I should sometimes, meaning wine, not water. It's good to drink more water than you should, as long as it's not TOO MUCH water.

I once again wished that my parents had never mated. Seriously! We have every damn disease there is in this family. Heart disease and diabetes run through my father's side of the family, along with a touch of anxiety. On my mom's side, we have colon cancer, breast cancer, Crohn's disease and more anxiety. No wonder I'm a nut case!

The day FINALLY arrived. My husband drove me to the mammogram place. The chamomile tea I drank that morning did not keep me from feeling like I was facing death. I changed out of my shirt with sweaty armpits, because you can't wear deodorant when you have a mammogram and because I had the nervous pit sweats. Deodorant messes up the images somehow. Look it up. I'm not a doctor.

I'm not sure if I pissed someone off at the mammogram place, or if it is just standard procedure to clamp the mammogram machine on someone's boob like you are trying to kill a spider with it when they have to come back for a second test. For the love of bruised titties that hurt SO MUCH worse the second time. And I still had to have a sonogram after that. Even with that FLAT view, they couldn't tell what my "mass" was.

FINALLY, after the sonogram, I was told I had a "cluster of cysts like a bunch of grapes." My first thought was "Cluster of Cysts" would make a great name for a punk band. My second thought was, "WHY didn't I postpone the appointment and do the damn HuffiPost Live show?"

HuffPost Live, email me!! I'm cancer free and available now.

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