boob day.

So, I'm gettin' a mammogram next week. Awesome. Yessirree, nothin' like havin' your boobs squished under 19 pounds of pressure. When you're a B-cup. Barely. I also really love walking into the waiting room with all of the other ladies sitting there, mouths open, jaws on floor when they see how old I am.

Being 32 years old and a high-risk breast cancer patient is great fodder for conversation. (And blogs, I might add.) Women twenty and thirty years older than I am find it unbelievable that I'd be getting a mammogram before the age of 40.

Next week, I'll be getting my fifth mammogram in three and a half years. Four years ago, I found a lump in my left breast. Turned out to be an atypical papilloma--a lesion that, according to my surgeon, is right between cancer and non-cancer. They took that bad boy out, left a gorgeous scar (my surgeon asked, "So what type of modeling do you do? Just so I know what I'm working with."), and occasional jabs of pain that feel like lightning bolts zapping at my boob.

And the doctors said, "You're now 5 times more likely to develop breast cancer in your lifetime."

Again, awesome.

They watch me like a hawk. I get my mammograms and they examine those digital images like nobody's business. My first mammogram? They found linear calcifications. That looked like cancer was nearby. I was in surgery again...two days later. Benign, thank God, but terrifying. I wasn't even 30 years old then.

I have little boobies. I like them, actually. If they were any bigger, I'd look funny. I'm nearly 6' tall, thin, and big boobs would make me look, well, odd. But the part I don't like about my boobs?

Puttin' 'em in that damn mammography machine.

"Here," says the technician, usually a middle-aged woman with cold hands, "lemme just see. if I. can get this in there. a leeeeetle more, " while she tugs and pulls at my teeny, tiny boobies.

There's nothing much to get in there, darlin', I want to say back to her. But instead, I laugh. Because I'm nervous.

But, like magic, she does. And I hold my breath, because that's what you're supposed to do.

Each boob, three different ways. Squeeze, press, tug, pull. It's more annoying than painful. And I have to laugh when I think of my teeny, tiny boobies going anywhere.

The days leading up to Boob Day, as the Ross-a-tron and I affectionately refer to the experience, are nerve-wracking. I'm convinced I'm going to get breast cancer someday. It's not a matter of if for me, but a matter of when. My oncologist calls me an anomaly. Atypical papillomas are rare. But, oh--will I fight. I will fight and fight and fight.

February 19th at 12:45 p.m. Think of me. And in the meantime, feel yourself up, ladies. Do those breast self-exams (BSEs). For me. For you. For everyone you love and who loves you.

By the way, I'm a guest blogger over at Krista's today. Head on over. I promise you'll love her.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura


{oh, Dolly...you're a hoot!}