The doctor at the breast center flipped through my chart. “It’s hard to read your scans. You have really dense breasts,” he said.
“Stupid boobs,” I thought. I felt like smacking them and shouting “Snap out of it!” like Cher to Nicolas Cage in “Moonstruck.”
The doctor continued. “What I’m seeing could just be scar tissue from your two previous biopsies, but I’d feel better if we did some more extensive testing to make sure.”
The breast center doctor was not making me and my idiot bosoms feel better. “What kind of tests?” I asked.
“Well,” he began, “We’ve already done the mammogram with the smaller panel to get a closer look.”
I remembered that mammogram vividly. The tech said it would be “slightly more uncomfortable” than the regular screening. She was right. Boobs aren’t meant to be seen in 2D.
“And we’ve got the ultrasound results on both breasts,” the doctor went on. “So the next step is something called scintimammography.”
“So it’s just like a scintilla of a mammogram?” I asked. “Because that would feel a lot better than the whole mammogram.”
“Um, not exactly. We would inject you with a small amount of a radioactive substance that would light up any areas of cancer in the breast,” he explained.
My mind skipped over all details of this invasive procedure and instead I sort of spoke-sang “Radioactive! Radioactive!” at the doctor.
He stared at me.
“It’s a song,” I said. “I think it’s by the Imaginary Dragons.”
“Okaaay,” he said slowly. “Anyway, it’s a very small dose, but it would make you a bit radioactive after the procedure.”
The song in my head came to a record-scratching halt. He might as well have told me he was going to lacquer my tits with superfluous pepper spray. “So I’d be, like, a walking Chernobyl?”
“Oh no. Like I said, it’s a very small dose,” he repeated. “But to be on the safe side, we recommend that you stay away from children and the elderly for at least eight hours after the test.”
Wait, what? I’d have to stay away from my kids for eight solid hours? Suddenly, the test didn’t sound so bad. More like a contaminated reactor spa day. Or better yet, a Spiderman holiday.
This whole dense breasts thing was looking up. The doctor was basically gifting me a nuclear restraining order against my children.
“Let’s do this.”
*My boobs are fine.
* I’m being told by my daughter that the band is Imagine Dragons.