Mammograms leave me depressed. I’ve reacted this way before, even in mid-summer. I feel poked and prodded, and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and let my mama rub my back.*

However, I got a nice little nap on the ultrasound table—a few winks during the ultrasound, and then some minutes while I waited for the tech to come back and tell me:

“oh yeah, we know all about that third lump your doctor found—there’s definitely something there, they’ve seen it before, they just hadn’t documented it. But it hasn’t changed, not a problem, looks like the same type of fibroadenoma you came in for before.”

Another one for the annals of WTF is up with our medical system: HADN’T DOCUMENTED IT? HADN’T MENTIONED IT TO ME? I mean, I’m pretty lackadaisical about my health, but not that bad, and my doctor went through the earlier reports from the mammogram people before she sent me for an ultrasound two days later.

And actually, when I said “well, nobody mentioned it to me, six months ago when they found the second cyst and told me about it, and my doctor looked at the file” the tech was all “well, that’s what I understand, that it shows up on earlier pictures, I think that’s what they said, they’d seen it, but I’ll check what they sent to your doctor.” Because, you know, you don’t get to talk to the person who actually knows the images mean.

For fuck’s sake.

* The virtue of buying at the natural foods convenience food cancels out the self-indulgence of junk food, right?

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