Diagnostic smooshing.

QOD: How is it that the jalapeño cheddar has 10 more calories than the bacon cheddar?

If you don’t have me as a contact on WhatsApp, you’re missing out on some intellectually stimulating discussions. One friend responded, “I bet the ‘bacon’ is just the addition of liquid smoke, which is 0 calories.” Then, they quickly added, “It seems like they’d be the same, though. Weird.”

Another friend harnessed the power of the web and looked up the ingredients. “The jalapeño one has modified tapioca starch, while the bacon one has modified food starch.”

Gator (yes, I am naming names even though that’s not her name) took the judgmental route:

“Please tell me you did not eat the jalapeño cheddar or bacon cheddar.🤢“

I did not. I was conveniently in the line-up at a convenience store, waiting to pay for my energy drinks. Even though I should be cutting back on caffeine, PEOPLE ARE DRAINING. I am glad the mask mandate is back: I was getting tired of seeing people’s garbage mouths. Even two weeks post jab #2, I was still masking up whenever I’d pop into a business. I continued to wear a mask because, as a retail employee, I appreciated customers who kept wearing theirs. I’m a benevolent misanthropist.

FUCK YOU, I’M POLITE!

But, the most notable thing that happened since my last post was getting screened for cancer.

It had nothing to do with the brown spot under my toenail, which I now realize this post implied was the reason behind last month’s trip to the urgent care clinic. I left out the details because I could not say with certainty what was going on.

So, I had a mammogram last Wednesday. It was uncomfortable and nerve-wracking. Mostly the latter.

My family has a history of cancer. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, I think, in 2006. After a year or so of chemotherapy and then a mastectomy, she was declared cancer-free. She was cancer-free for almost five years until it came back in her skull and spine. She passed away in 2013.

The doctor I saw at the urgent care clinic last month was more concerned about my mental health than the possibility of me having cancer. Given my family history, though, she booked me for the mammogram.

After the procedure, while seated in the waiting room among other hospital robe-clad women, I watched the freshly squeezed leave one by one as the mammography technician gave them the ok.

When it was my turn, the technician asked me to follow her into a small, private waiting room furnished with a loveseat. All to call me dense!

Dense, like most women under 40. The technician explained that if I’m to get screened annually, an ultrasound should be done in combination with a mammogram. That is because a mammogram alone isn’t the best diagnostic method for younger women. The flatter the breast tissue compresses, the clearer the image. So, as Tammy pointed out after I gave her the rundown of my appointment, it would’ve been almost insulting had the technician said, “That was easy!”

I contemplated keeping this information private, but it was not like I had to go to the hospital because I stuck something without a flared base up my butt. I am a mature, responsible adult. Also, eloquently crass.