Today I got felt up at Washington Hospital Center by two doctors, a woman and a man, both lovely people. I found out that because I am an Ashkenazi Jew, I already have a one in forty-two chance of getting breast cancer. And because my mother and my grandmother both had breast cancer, and because my mother’s breast cancer was pre-menopausal, they are really flippin’ out over there. I’m at high risk, red-alert, bring out the big guns.

They also recommended genetic testing again for me, which I wrote about at about this time last year. I probably still won’t go through with the genetic testing, mainly because it oogs me out, and what is the point of finding out if I have a “breast cancer gene” anyhow? I don’t want to know if there is some gene inside of me that will increase my likelihood of getting breast cancer over the course of a lifetime to 80%.

If there is a situation to be dealt with now, I’ll deal with it, but I don’t want those numbers and statistics in my mind and body. I’ll go every six months for an exam, as they recommend, and leave it at that.

I know this all sounds very flippant, but I actually was really impressed with the level of care over there. Yes, they do a bit of unintentional fear-mongering, but they did seem really concerned and were also very positive and kind. I felt like they really had my best interests at heart, and when I say that about medical professionals–given the level of fear, loathing, and mistrust I usually have for them–you know it’s for real. They also assigned me to a very sweet woman who works as a “navigator,” who is helping me to navigate the hospital system. She actually made all my appointments for me tomorrow. By agreeing to work with her, I am now taking part in a study to see if these navigator folks can help women better manage their health and treatment, and see better outcomes.

So tomorrow morning, I am going for an MRI, a mammogram, a sonogram, and, as I have been joking all day, a candy-gram and a money-gram. It’s weird — I feel like I should be freaking out, but instead, I am looking at this all with some kind of oddly bemused detachment. And also gratitude — for all the women who have gone through this process before me, with all the benign and malignant lumps and bumps in their breastuses that lead them down this path. I am not trying to make light of this, or of any woman’s struggle with breast cancer or a breast cancer scare, but I just can’t seem to get whipped up into a drama over it. I want to. Believe me I want to go all drama queen right now. I want to call Sami’s dad at 1 am crying and hysterical, asking him if he would raise Sami if I died, but I just can’t seem to go there.

It’s getting late, and I need to get up early tomorrow for the exams, so I will leave this post on boobie madness for now.

Good night.