Dear Fran Drescher #19
Then, I went and got a mammogram on March 1, considering it’s been two years since my last mammogram. My son—the boobie-obsessed one—and I made a day of it. He sat out in the lobby while I went in and had my “boob-crusher” appointment. (That’s what my best friend calls it anyway.) Notice I said boob singular. I really wish that they would charge me half-price since I, well, I… uh… only have one side left to crush. Michael and I went to Red Robin afterward and ate way too many fries.
I finally saw the oncologist today so he could go over my mammogram results. I thought I would be in and out scot-free within ten minutes. While the mammogram was clear (which I was pretty certain it would be as I have not found any lumps these past two years), Dr. Hoffman was concerned about an annoying cough I’ve had for the past three months. He ordered a CT scan.
I wanted to sit in the parking lot and cry for half an hour because I was so convinced he was going to say everything was fine. Instead, I called three people: Ken (husband), Jonathan (my other son: obsessed with Russian women), and Tami (my other best friend besides you). Afterward, I sang to a Loverboy CD the whole way home at the top of my lungs.
Best friends always,
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