Remember when I was Super Champion of the Universe and Queen of Growing Huge Breast Cysts?
Uh-huh. No more! Instead of being a gold-medal winner, I’m now the pleased owner of a lowly participant ribbon in the boob cyst Olympics. I might even be picked last if somebody was putting together a team for competitive cyst growing.
At any rate, today was my scheduled recheck. Two ultrasounds, coming right up.
I tried to act like it wasn’t any big deal. But really? Really, I was terrified. And pissed as all hell. I’ve been short-tempered most of the week, but I think we all know that I wasn’t really mad about the dishes or that bad driver. I was angry about this interruption to my life, this evil little reminder that holy crap, I just might be mortal. This is sooooo unfair!
My Guy took the afternoon off to take me to The Breast Center. And, per usual, we were totally the youngest people there by, like, a gajillion years. People treat you extra special kindly when it seems like you might be A Really Sad Case.
But I’m not really sad. I’m really thankful. Because my fibroadenoma hasn’t come back. And the formerly huge cysts are now teeny tiny. The tech remembered me, and called me “honey,” and remembered how she’d had to grab a special wand to get an accurate image of the three-inch cyst before it was aspirated. And today? She celebrated with me, and assured me that 2:30 wasn’t too early to get a drink, and told me that the restaurant across the street serves great margaritas.
Once My Guy and I got back to the car, I wasn’t sure whether to cry or throw up. So we got ice cream instead.