What better way to kick off my second year of breast cancer survival than with a mammogram? Perhaps a large gin? But no. For me, a trip to the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit was in order. And to be fair, for this I was very grateful.
As previously mentioned, I have a date with Surgical Spice in March that I am keen to keep. But I can only do this providing there is no evidence of a new breast cancer lurking within my, hopefully soon to be considerably reduced, right boob. I do feel it would be particularly mean for a new cancer to pop up but given that I have done this once already, I am sadly at greater risk. Sigh. So annual mammograms it is.
The delightful Brainy Spice rejigged appointments for me so that I would have all sorted in time for my date with Surgical Spice and today was the appointed hour. It was odd. I have never found it a distressing or painful experience. Undignified, yes. Uncomfortable, even. But these things are acceptable. However, it has taken on a new significance. Since beginning the whole screening malarkey back with smears in my twenties, I have always been able to put them out of mind once done. Somehow, I do not think I will be doing that this time. I only had to have the one boob irradiated. Does that equal half the discomfort and half the indignity? Possibly not. It certainly does not make for half the worry.
The radiographer assured me I would hear through the post in the usual way. I also have a date with Brainy Spice in two weeks time. But from past experience, I know I may receive a phone call. So for the next fortnight I shall be leaping out of my skin whenever the post arrives or whenever the phone rings.
Maybe it is time for that gin, after all.