There’s been a vague pain on my left, ambling between my left armpit and left underboob, kicking tender parts and complaining when I rub it looking for lumps.
I had to get a mammogram anyway. I called, and after I scheduled one for the end of the week, I remembered I needed to get a bone density test because I am just that f-ing old. The re-scheduler asked why I’d decided to get a mammogram anyway.
Did I say “Because it’s been two years” and leave it? No I did not. I said, “Because it’s been two years and my left armpit started to hurt.”
And thus my simple in-and-squish-and-squish-and-out mammogram morphed into a diagnostic mammogram requiring an extra doctor’s visit.
Of course, nothing hurt anymore when I walked into the exam room. Then he added a little elbow grease during the breast exam and I squawked.
“Ack! Sorry. Sorry I yelled. That did not feel good.”
Which was a WEIRD thing to say, because it suggests I thought it felt good up to that point, and I was in that mid-breast exam social situation in which one don’t make eye contact with one’s doctor while he’s kneading one’s bosom anyway. Awkward.
He found no lumps, but he also found no muscle strains, so I’m approved for a diagnostic squish in a week and a half. I’m also signed up for the bone density scan on the same day, which I am sure will “feel good.”