Lumps & Lyrics: A Gen X Mammogram Mixtape

In which I discover I'm dense (in the best way) and time-travel via my kids and The Cranberries

An essay of mine came out today in the terrific Jenny Magazine, a publication whose very specific demographic includes the overlap of people who are a) able to quote Reality Bites on command, and b) due for their first colonoscopy.

In other words, MY PEOPLE.

Fifteen years into this professional writing gig, I still get a thrill on publication day. Honestly, I should celebrate more: it takes nerves of steel to see a piece of personal, tender writing from initial idea to internet-consumable. It also takes a long time. At least this one did.

“Of breasts and berries” tells the story of the mammogram I had last May, after I found a lump in my left breast. Of course, any irregularity in the body is scary, but this one felt extra scary because my own mother was told mere months before she has stage-IV breast cancer. So the stakes felt very, very high as my left boob suffered the squeeze at the imaging center.

Though they didn’t find anything malignant that day, I was upset. Fortunately, I’d scheduled myself to pick strawberries at Halcyon Farms in Arroyo Grande after the procedure. To understand how this relates or why it matters, I’ll refer you to the full piece on Jenny. (As an added incentive for reading it on their site, I’ve thrown in a recipe for my four-layer strawberry cake. Such a winner!)

For the casual reader, the end of the published story is probably satisfying enough. But for friends concerned about what happened next, I thought I’d provide a little addendum.

A food writer walks into a gynecologist’s office

First, I need to acknowledge the privilege of having good physicians in my corner. Living in a “desert of care” as many people so aptly describe California’s Central Coast, I cannot take for granted the expertise and tenacity of the professionals who watch over my health. That’s not to say I haven’t had some real Cracker Jacks. (Exhibit A: the gynecologist I told about my first lump with tears rolling down my face, who replied by prodding me for restaurant recommendations.) But a scare like this tends to separate the wheat from the chaff, to put it biblically, and I’ve been working with wheat ever since. My current providers include a warm and knowledgeable nurse practitioner who takes copious notes and reviews them carefully before we meet, and a breast surgeon so comforting and fatherly I have to resist crawling into his lap.

In November, these two conspired to send me to the imaging center for a follow-up to the scary, inconclusive mammogram last May, the one I wrote about for Jenny. Thankfully, I was distracted by all manner of personal and professional goings-on throughout those six months, but I could actually feel the lump, like when I slept on my belly, or when my husband hugged me tightly. Moreover, it now felt like several lumps, and it freaked me out.

Excuse me, but who invited you?

When the day finally came for my November mammogram and ultrasound, the radiologist confirmed my suspicions. The lump had apparently rented a keg and texted all the other lumps, who came ready to party. Fortunately, according to the radiologist and my kindly breast surgeon, they’re all just a bunch of harmless kids. No bad apples, hallelujah.

The interior of my left boob.

So I’m in the clear for the time being, which is a huge relief. It doesn’t mean I’m off the hook for getting checked regularly, though. One of those harmless kids could sneak in or hide a real dum-dum if we don’t stay vigilant.

That goes for you, too.

In the United States, one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer, but for reasons owing to dense tissue and family history, my lifetime risk is one in five. (Actually, if you want to get technical, mine is a 19% lifetime risk. Guess who likes to get technical? Insurance companies. They only cover MRIs for women with a 20% lifetime risk of breast cancer, no less. Just another reason to love those guys.) And I’m not alone. Roughly half of the women in this country have dense breast tissue, which puts them at greater risk because imaging can’t always see the baddies through it.

A few things to think about:

• Don’t know if you have dense breast tissue? See your gynecologist or primary care doc and ask. You might be surprised. I certainly was.

• Never had a mammogram? Your gynecologist or primary care doc can order you one, depending on your age and risk level. (The American Cancer Society recommends women with average risk start getting mammograms at age 45.)

• If you have dense breast tissue, your gyno might want you to get on an annual schedule for a diagnostic ultrasound as well. Here in San Luis Obispo, we’re lucky to have ABUS (Automated Breast Ultrasound System) because it offers radiation-free, supplemental screening that can detect breast cancer in dense tissue more effectively than mammography alone. I’ve danced with the ABUS at San Luis Diagnostics several times, and it’s very quick and straightforward. (Just be prepared to wait for an appointment if you’re trying to schedule both a mammo and the ABUS back-to-back.)

  

  Your friendly resident ABUS machine

• Feel a lump? Don’t panic. Some of us are just bumpy and lumpy for no good reason. Mine even sometimes aches from the inside, which can be wickedly scary, but all the doctors tell me it signifies nothing. Instead of freaking out, just schedule an appointment with your gyno or doc. No big whoop.

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There’s No Need To Argue Anymore

My first car was a 1983 copper hatchback Honda Civic I bought used from my grandmother for $500. Growing up 20 minutes from the high school, friends, restaurants and movie theater, I was reliant on it every day and pushed an awful lot of music through its tin-can speakers via a janky tape-deck-wire-portable-CD situation. One of those CDs was The Cranberries’ No Need To Argue, which I wore thin as paper spinning in that player day after day. I loved it so much, in fact, I put a Cranberries decal in my back window.

After I sold the Honda and left for college, I stopped listening to the Crans so much. I still loved them, but I no longer drove hours each day, and in whatever listening time I did manage to find, other artists rushed in to take their place.

So, apart from “Linger” and “Dreams”—songs which are unavoidable thanks to commercials, dentist’s offices and Targets the world over—I hadn’t listened to my old friends The Cranberries for nearly 30 years before my daughter came home asking to hear them.

“The Cranberries?” I asked her. “Where did you hear about them?”

“Everyone listens to them,” she said, her voice betraying the belief that I am a hopeless old square.

It turns out she’s not wrong about everyone listening to them: the Cranberries are enjoying a massive revival, especially among Gen Z. Maybe it’s a result of an obsession with all things ‘90s, or the untimely (and tragic) death of lead singer Dolores O’Riordan in 2018, but either way, the music is back. As I take the kids through the catalogue, I’m reminded of the pre-Spotify days when we had to commit to whole albums, giving every track a chance and letting deep cuts change us, rather than cherry-picking what we wanted to hear.

One of those cuts was “No Need To Argue,” the last track on the album after which it was named, and one of the simplest and prettiest tunes ever written.

We listened to it in the car recently, the whole family, and as the harmonies faded at the end, my son declared it the perfect song to arrange for a choir to sing. So he’s been playing it nonstop at the house lately to scribble down the notes, and it opens a portal to 1995 for me every time. What is it about music we consumed in the wet-cement of adolescence that makes it so vibrant to us forever? This track, I’m telling you: it’s so alive to me, it may as well be breathing.

Would love to know what those tunes are for you, too. What takes you right back? And when’s the last time you really indulged?

Until next time, your friend,