When my very own emerging flesh orbs first began to sprout during puberty, they seemed like two sweet little gifts from God. My treasured twins. My Harry and Sally. The first loves of my life. My next-level knockers. They were poised, pretty, perky and proud; sharing my cleavage like the perfect accessory. And if they were indeed going to be the secret to a happy womanhood, then I was fully ready to rock the rack.
But at the age of 33, I was diagnosed with fibrocystic breast disease. This is normal, they said. It’s common to have cysts; you’re fine. You are young and don’t have a family history. If that was true, why was one of my girls misbehaving?
“Jenny Saldaña!” the nurse at the NY Presbyterian Herbert Irving Cancer Pavilion called out, which came out more like ‘Jenny Sal-Day-Nuh,’ which frankly bugs me out, because in a society that has made Schwarzenegger, Zellweger, and Gyllenhaal household names, I can’t understand why they can’t pronounce a name that rhymes with “lasagna.” But I just wanted to get the mammogram over with.