Bless me, mother, for I have sinned. It’s been 4 years since my last mammogram.
In early April, I went for a regular screening mammogram. Which got a call back. Literally: They call you on your cell phone when you’re sitting at your desk in your open floor plan office environment.
A week later, there was a diagnostic mammogram. And ultrasound. The perfectly-seasoned radiology technician took 60 images.
The next afternoon, there was a biopsy. Ultrasound-guided removal of tissue via a long needle, with tiny titanium clips nail-gunned in to mark six spots. And right after that, another mammogram. Hell yes, it hurt.
At the end of the next business day, another phone call. Excuse me please, advertising colleagues, while I step out of our meeting to talk about invasive ductal carcinoma.