Today, everyone was outside in a t-shirt, clutching their arms tight because 58 degrees is not as warm as they imagined. Dogs were sniffing, children were laughing, and people were taking selfies with their babies under cherry blossom trees.
I turn 26 next month, which means I have 4 more years to invent a new stem cell so Forbes will notice me. I know that 26 is young because everyone keeps telling me that. But they also tell me that being pregnant at 35 is “geriatric.”
For almost twenty six years I’ve been a hypochondriac. Last summer I woke up with an excruciating toothache and my first thought was, I’m pregnant. A hypochondriac's best friend is usually the doctor. A doctor is a person in a coat sometimes, usually Dansko clogs, often wearing glasses. They say things like “your test results were negative” ,or, “you just have a cold” ,or, “your toe is broken but it will heal on its own.” Doctors are supposed to tell you you’re fine.
A few weeks ago, I went for my yearly checkup at the gynecologist. I love the gynecologist because you get to pee in a cup and put the pee cup in a metal cupboard in the bathroom like you’re making a book return at the library.
A hypochondriac’s worst nightmare is when a doctor pauses. “I’m feeling a lump here, in your right breast.”
“April fools” I wanted to say.
“My right or your right” I wanted to say.
“Sorry, what?” I said.
Hearing a bespectacled woman in clogs with 12 years of education tell me she felt a lump in my breast was my worst fear come to life. She asked me to feel it myself so that I knew what it felt like. I pressed down and all I could feel was my boob. Sorry, my “right breast.” I suddenly didn’t know what a lump was. What it felt like. I didn’t know anything.
I hate the word breast. Breasts are on chickens before you kill them and eat them. You don’t make chicken parm out of chicken boobs. Or chicken tits. Breast comes before cancer or meat. Breasts can kill you or they can be deep fried and dipped in honey mustard. All I could think about while the doctor tried to get me to feel the lump in my breast was chicken nuggets and death.
She handed me a piece of paper with the names of radiology offices and a diagram of a breast with a dot drawn on it to show where the lump was felt. A “you are here” marker on a map at the mall. My lump was somewhere between the Hot Topic and the Wetzel’s Pretzels. I walked out of the office and called 3 radiologists before getting an ultrasound appointment the next day.
The 24 hours between going to the doctor and getting the scan were terrifying. I was thinking the whole time that I had cancer. I’m really afraid of dying because I haven’t competed in American Ninja Warrior yet.
The waiting room of a radiology office is a liminal space. Everyone is waiting to find out the gender of their lumps, or they’re sitting with someone who is. My friend Amanda, medical professional, all around best friend, and hypochondriac’s dream, came with me to the appointment. As I waited to be called in, the large LED screen in the lobby was displaying trivia questions. I guess before I know if I have cancer or not, I can try and guess which species of Rhino is native to Sub-Saharan Africa.
I went in for the ultrasound and the tech was very nice. She put the gel on my boob and it wasn’t cold, which is nuts because Mass Media has led me to believe that the ultrasound gel is always cold. The tech told me it looked like I had “dense breast tissue” which sounds like a cheap cut of meat at the butcher. She wasn’t supposed to tell me anything until the doctor looked at the scans but she could probably tell I was drafting my will in my head and she threw me a bone. (All my earthly possessions go to my family. All the turkey in my fridge goes to my dog. All my clothes go to a cool teen.)
The doctor confirmed my dense breast tissue was just that. No lumps. No cancer. Just a dense breasted girl who was in for the scariest and then most rattling 24 hours of her life. Just a woman assuming the worst and for a moment, believing it.
I have friends my age who have died of cancer. I have friends my age who have lived despite it. All you can do is be 22. Be 26. Post a photo of your breakfast on the internet like the world isn’t ending. This is your subtle reminder to check yourself for whatever. Your balls, your breasts, your friend’s balls, your friend’s breasts. Go to the doctor when you can and hopefully you can meet a nice lady who tells you that you’re dense. And for the first time, that will be a compliment.
Glad it all worked out, Rachel.