Last week, I had my first mammogram. I won't bury the lede—I'm fine. The results arrived the same day, which initially triggered my anxiety ("Why so fast? Something must be wrong"), until I remembered I live in the Year of Our Lady Ms. Rachel, where same-day medical results are standard rather than ominous.

Baruch HaShem. The girls are alright.

The impetus for this overdue appointment was twofold. First, the obvious: after 40, annual mammograms become part of that delightful catalog of routine indignities we call "women's health." I'm fortunate—no family history of breast cancer, negative BRCA-1 and -2 tests. The only genetic gifts passed down to me are neurological issues and a generous helping of mental illness, both of which, thanks to modern medicine and personal choice, end with me. 

I postponed last year's appointment, partly because I was hesitant to subject my surgically enhanced breasts to compression so soon after my mastopexy and reduction (a story for another time), but mostly because I was terrified. I didn't want to be the statistical outlier in my family, the one who discovers a malignancy and faces the entire brutal sequence: surgery, chemo, radiation, mastectomy, and the slow dissolution of everything familiar about my body. I didn't want that for myself or my loved ones. 

Then, in April, a friend and colleague died from metastatic breast cancer. She was two years older than me.

I spent two weeks sobbing. This woman embodied every quality that should theoretically protect someone from cosmic cruelty—kindness, thoughtfulness, devotion as a wife and mother. She seemed too fundamentally decent to deserve even a head cold, let alone Stage 4 cancer that skipped right over stages 1 through 3 like some malevolent overachiever.

Man, fuck cancer.

Between her death and learning my former boss was also battling breast cancer, I finally called radiology.

The appointment itself proved anticlimactic. A mammogram isn't nearly as horrific as popular culture suggests, though it's certainly no day at the spa. You undress from the waist up in front of a stranger, answer questions about your "breast health history," then lean into a machine that squishes your breasts between two glass plates while taking pictures. Breathe at the wrong moment or develop "wrinkles" (excess skin caught in the machinery), and you get to repeat the process.

My technician channeled Nurse Ratched—not actively hostile, just aggressively indifferent to my polite compliance. Fine. I get it. You do this all day. Thanks for not yelling at me, at least.

The discomfort registers maybe a 4 out of 10 on the pain scale. I've accidentally kicked myself in the chest (pre-surgery) and that hurt significantly more. Plus, I'm admittedly vain about my assets—I paid good money for them to look cute and perky, and I intend to maintain that investment as long as possible.

Nurse Not-Ratched promised results within five business days. They arrived by dinner. I exhaled properly for the first time all day and earned myself another year of reprieve, though self-exams and gynecological visits remain non-negotiable. Strangers examining my body isn't my idea of entertainment, but I'm realistic about the requirements of aging while female.

If you possess breasts, consider this your PSA. Get them checked, especially after 40. October might be Breast Cancer Awareness Month, but awareness should be a daily practice, not an annual publicity campaign. The girls deserve that much attention.