Dense Breasts

“Patient has dense breasts.” When I was thirteen, struggling to fill out an A cup, I never thought the words dense breasts would apply to me.

I spent my teens and twenties mortified of my concave chest. Where other girls had discernible mounds of womanhood under their tops, I looked like a boy. And boys NEVER gawped at flat girls.

Everyone told me my boobs would grow when I finally went on the pill at 22. Guess what? My bra size didn’t change. I still had wrinkles of lace and satin around the top of my bra, a fact I hid under baggy clothing, crossed arms, and slouching.

My dense breasts popped up late.

Like in my forties-late. I don’t know where they came from or why I have them – FINALLY, it must be said – when I’m too old to show them off. If I smush them into a push-up bra, my chest looks like an old crone’s. In downward facing dog, they land a mean uppercut to the chin. Cute bras don’t hold anything still or keep the suckers up. I almost fainted when I went to the lingerie store, got measured, and found out I wore a D.

I was still shoving those things into a very threadbare B.

I’m not complaining, though. My mammogram came back negative for cancer. Forgive me if it takes the better part of the rest of my life to get used to seeing DENSE BREASTS all over the report.

Haven’t read my books? CHECK THEM OUT HERE.

And if you haven’t lately, get a mammogram, ladies. Yeah, I know it feels like somebody dropped the garage door on your tata. Or your balls. (Wow, the look of agony on MTM’s face at that descriptor….priceless.) But hey, it’s better than dying from something that could’ve been prevented.