This was the year. The big one. Forty.
Honestly, it was no big deal. Certainly not the tragedy of days which I imagined back when I was young and stupid and thought that forty was equivalent to having one foot in the grave. Forty is not dead. And it's way less old the closer you get to it.
It's not that I don't feel old sometimes. I do. My body goes to great efforts to remind me that I'm not exactly young anymore. A lot of days I gird my loins (read: suck in my stomach) and scoff with my fist in the air, determined to be "among the very young at heart" and undeterred in my conquest of life and happiness. That's usually followed by noticing that I've pulled a muscle in my back with all that fist pumping and then I decide I'll just nap for today. Tomorrow: the world!
As I said, my fortieth birthday was really no big deal. Except in the way that it was a HUGE deal. You see, as logic would have it, at this same time I was turning forty, my tatas were also turning forty. I should start by telling you that I haven't always been a fan of my tatas. They showed up to the party way late in my opinion and they simply refused to reach their full potential in what I believed were the most significant years of my tatas lives. Too little, too late. My boobs in a nutshell.
But over the years, the girls have taken full advantage of the extra pounds life has added to my person and have in the past five years or so become quite dear to me. They are not in any way knock out bosoms the likes of such famed cleavage as Dolly Parton or Pamela Anderson. I'm super okay with that. They did manage, though, to nicely fill out to what seems more proportionately balanced to my body type. I appreciate them for this while acknowledging that their slow awakening afforded me the time I needed to know that boobs aren't everything. And whether you love 'em or hate 'em, wish they were bigger or smaller, I think we can all agree that they hold in their being the capacity to scare the absolute hell out of us.
Two days before the big 4-0 would hit, my 39 and 7/8 year old breasts were put on center stage. The lump was not very big. But it was there.
Our family doctor confirmed its presence and put in the necessary referrals for a mammogram. She'd been giving me a head's up for several years that I would need to start considering a mammogram when I hit forty. I laughed through my tears and said, "Well, you can't say I'm not a compliant patient." Humor is my safety net.
If I can laugh, I can breathe.
Painful? Yes it was. Terrifying? Yes it was. The doctor in the radiology office read the mammogram and requested a follow up ultrasound. I didn't know if this was good or bad but scary? Yes it was. A physical exam by the doctor and the longest hour of my life later, I was relieved to find out that it was just a cyst. It has since disappeared and I'm good to go until next year's check up.
For those of you who have been down this path with less than good news -nothing but love and support for you and your tatas! I don't pretend to have walked in your shoes but my perspective was certainly broadened.
Oh, and FYI, if you happen to see me out in public, let's keep the forty thing on the DL. Boobies are one thing but I really don't want my vagina to know how old she is. ;-)
