Go to your physical appointment. “Now that you’re forty,” your doctor says, “let’s get you scheduled for a mammogram.” It’s okay to laugh at her choice of words. Let’s. She won’t go with you and hold your hand when your boobs are smashed.
When you get home, put the referral in your box of important papers. Immediately write “make mammogram appointment” on your to-do list. Then ignore it. Pretend you are too busy to pick up the phone. If you avoid it, it might go away. [But probably not]. Repeat this once a week. For three weeks. At least.
Text a friend. Ask her to check in to make sure you’ve made the appointment. When she texts you at 9am the next day, promise her you’ll make the call before dinner.
Dig through several piles of important papers to find the referral. Type in the number as your heart races. There’s no reason to be afraid.

You are put on hold and now have a decision to make: hang up and try again later? Or wait? Once you’ve hung up the phone you likely won’t call again. So you wait, hoping someone answers before a child [or husband] needs you.

You hear the same recording over and over again. When it finally rings, your heart skips a beat. A brute woman answers. Don’t let it jar you. The first available appointment at the office by your house is two months from now. You don’t want to wait that long. Tell her you are willing to drive twenty minutes for the one in two weeks. Get it over with.
Fill out the screening questionnaire. The first part is easy. Height. Weight. How many pregnancies have you had? The next question gets tricky. Who in your family has now, or has ever, had cancer? Race through the Maternal side. You’ve known these answers for years. Your mom’s battling cancer. Your Grandpa died of lung cancer.

You’ll get to the Paternal side and realize you don’t know. You vaguely remember your grandmother had cancer, but you haven’t spoken to that side of the family in years. Send a text to the only number you have on your dad’s side. An aunt.

When she replies, sit down. Your Granny died of recurrent breast cancer when she was sixty, first diagnosed in her early-fifties. Two great aunts also battled it. And several cousins.

You feel like someone has punched you in the gut.
Search Doctor Google for “breast cancer risk factors.” Mayo Clinic has a great list [and is a reliable source]. Out of fourteen factors listed, check six. Be glad you made the appointment. Wipe the tears gushing down your face.
On Mammogram Day, wear your sexiest black underwear [aka superhero cape]. The lace makes you feel invincible. If they find an evil villain, you’ll be confident it will be one you can fight.

This post is inspired by The Darling Files: a new project started by my friends Rachel Nevergall and Callie Feyen. You can read more about The Darling Files from Rachel here and from Callie here.