the weight of the world

Ever feel like maybe the universe IS trying to crush you?  I know that I suffer from the effects of anxiety and trauma, I get that my heart will forever race when I enter the walls of a medical office.  I have been working to accept this as my normal for some time now.

Yesterday I got a terrible call.  Fucked up in every way.  My annual mammogram screen was abnormal.

Let me back up.... I went to get this mammogram because insurance covers it (thanks ACA).  A lot of literature is out there that says if you're in your forties, you are possibly better served going every other year because of the rate of false positives.  Nevertheless, I received a couple of reminder letters in the mail.  I happened to not be pregnant.  Sure, go get it over with.

My follow-up ultrasound is monday afternoon.  Could it be a false positive?  Sure.  There's anywhere between a 45 and 60 percent false positive rate in women my age.  I have really dense breasts.  My mom does too.  We don't have a family history of early breast cancer in our family.  Due to some stuff with an estranged family member that I will leave off this blog, I did happen to be tested for BRCA.  And I am not a carrier.  My mammogram reading could look different from the baseline one I had done at 40 because, well, you know, two fucking pregnancies.  I could go in and not even need a biopsy.

On the other hand, I could be really unlucky.  Because you know, it's me.  I could actually need a biopsy and then have to wait even longer in this state of being.  Fuck, I could be walking around with goddamn cancer right now.

In any event I am sort of angry.  Unfocused.  Tense.

Angry and tense by the way does wonders for my weight.  I get beautifully slim when I get stressed out.

And then there's the baby shower I am attending in a few hours.  You read that right.  PBFAW's baby shower.  I am one of the only people from our office invited, it's sort of a special thing.

I spend hours ruminating over whether my ttc days are going to end, how they're going to end.  On what terms.  Ha.  A fucking cancer diagnosis could well be how they end.

Risk of women to experience three or more consecutive miscarriages - 1:100
Risk of women to experience a partial molar pregnancy - 1:1,500
Risk of babies to develop a giant omphalocele - 1:5,000 to 1:10,000
Risk of woman to experience all three of the above scenarios, with a side order of Asherman's Syndome:  Fuck My Life.

With all of that, I should now note that there is this:
Risk of women at 40 to be diagnosed with breast cancer -1:68.  Which I realize is just under 1.5%.

1.5% is a pretty meaningless number, catch my drift?