Okay, one more post and then I’ll stop harping. (Okay, I might harp one more time when October arrives since that’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month.)
First off — I’m fine. I went in today for the spot compression follow-up. Again, no pain even though the tech needed to compress a little more. We did the image and the tech asked me to wait while she consulted with the doctor. Five minutes later, the doctor came in to tell me that everything was okay. It’s a benign calcification and they’ll see me next year. Boo-to-the-maximum-yah!
The takeaway lesson for me is, no matter what, go for the annual mammogram. I got the all-clear, but if this had been a malignant tumor the fact that I get my regular screenings would mean that it was pretty early stages which only increases my survival chances. So, whether previous ones have been painful or intimidating or embarrassing or what, please go.
Stepping down from the soapbox.
Thank you all so much for sharing your experiences and offering your support and encouragement.
I have to say that when I left the hospital after my test, I experienced two “signs”, or what I choose to interpret and receive as signs from the universe. I got in the car, and turned it on while I texted the “all-clear” message to my bosses, sister-in-law, and friend who knew I was going for the test. The song playing on the radio was Live Like You Were Dying by Tim McGraw. You know what, even though I do not currently have a life-threatening disease, this song is a universal message to make the most of every day, not put off the things we want to experience and to make sure we love deeper and sweeter with the people we cherish.
It occurs to me that when I let my super obesity severely narrow my life experiences and activities, I was more living like I was dying. That, my friends, is no longer acceptable. Now I will continue to seek out the experiences I’ve put on my Promise List, mark them done, and keep adding to the List.
After I texted, I put the car in reverse and looked around before backing up. Parked a little behind and to the right was a tan Chevy El Camino. Chevy stopped making these cars in 1987. They’re basically station wagons (Remember those in the pre-SUV era?) with a truck bed instead of back seat and luggage area. My father got his first El Camino when I was 14 in 1972. It was a comfortable ride, like a car, but gave him the cargo space to tote fishing rods, the dog boxes, etc. Daddy taught me to drive in that car. He liked the models so much that he replaced that first one with another sometime when I was in college and drove it until his death in 1983.
You don’t see many of them on the road today. I always smile when I do. I think I’ve mentioned before that Daddy’s medical specialty was radiation oncology. So today, as I left the hospital after getting the all clear on my mammogram, seeing a car like one of his was like getting a little nod from him. It was almost like a confirmation from him, saying, “You’re okay, sweetheart.” Fanciful thinking or not, I’ll take it.
Weighty Matters 
I’m glad everything is alright!
Very glad you’re okay!
My little brother had one of those cars! It was powder blue and he had a white cover for the back. Very sporty! I’m glad you got that nod from the Universe.
And, yeah, I’ll make my boob-squish appointment. Bleh. 🙂
We’re here for you, Skye!
Your last paragraph made me tear up.
So very glad you’re okay.
Susanne