Today is my annual
mammogram/sonogram.
Usually I can’t sleep the
night before imagining bad news. But
this year, with all that has just gone on, I arrive at the appointment without
my usually angst. Sure there’s a little,
but not as much as in years past. One
year I even cried while waiting for my results.
I am not bothered that the
technician is particularly heavy-handed when she lowers the metal plate onto my
breast, squishing it against the glass beneath.
And even though the room where I get my sonogram must be as cold as
David Letterman’s studio, I am not bothered by this either.
I am in and out in an
hour. The results are all good. I walk outside to a gorgeous fall day.
My life is unchanged. Exactly as I was hoping.
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