This isn’t a flowers and breakfast-in-bed kind of Mother’s Day post. I’m a private person and I don’t like admitting that I cried. I told her it was awful and she responded, “I know, it’s no fun… but it’s so important.” The first person I texted after was my mom. The only thing that kept me from squeezing the call button was the thought of my mom and all the mother figures in my life, including the caring team at the Outpatient Imaging Center who put warm blankets over me, rubbed my hands, whispered that it was going to be okay, it’s almost done, you got this. The contrast solution through my IV felt like burning coals from fingertips to shoulder. The noise was like sitting on tracks while a train passes. My arms were cinched over my head, breasts suspended through holes, and I was told not to move. I lay down half naked on metal with my face pressed so hard that I came out with bruised cheeks. The veins on both my arms blew out before we’d even started. I’ll tell you what nobody told me: the Breast MRI was rough. I went because these women said, Sarah, please do this sooner than later when my mammogram came back with suspicious dense tissue. I went for my mom, her sisters, my grandma Mama Maria and her sisters (all breast cancer warriors).
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