Mammogram. My first mammogram was today, a year overdue.

Mammogram. Take off your shirt and bra (a vintage nursing bra, I may add) and place your left breast on this plate.

Mammogram. An experience of boob smushing at its' finest, breath holding and talking teachers with my awesome nurse.

Mammogram. It wasn't that bad, truly. A little uncomfortable but any quiet time minus my four children is a welcome respite.

Mammogram. My Aunt Marnie died of breast cancer when she was in her early twenties, the mother of a young daughter.

Mammogram. She had noticed the pea size lump, but was told not to worry about it and six months later, it was too late.

Mammogram. I remember my cousin coming to stay with us soon after her mother died. She was a bit younger than me and I couldn't have been more than 5 or 6.

Mammogram. My mother had picked her up from the airport and when they picked me up from school I was green with envy over the new Strawberry Shortcake doll my own mother had gifted her.

Mammogram. The disappointment in my mother's eyes silenced me and later that evening, she gently reminded me that the other blue eyed blond little girl had a mother no longer.

Mammogram. I stood in my cape today, breasts exposed, thinking less of my own discomfort and more of the mother that was gone far too soon.

Mammogram. Get yours. Don't wait a year. Check your breasts. Put on your cape with joy and be thankful for life today.