I was injected with radioactive fluid yesterday.

And I also had to drink a bunch of hideous contrast. And then I was injected with iodine. All for the sake of my CT and bone scans. My breast surgeon wanted to ensure that the cancer hadn't spread to my lymph nodes or metastasized.

The scan experience wasn't memorable. In fact, it was quite relaxing. It only became interesting when the young tech with the boyish face asked if I wanted to listen to some music for my 20-minute bone scan, and I said, "Sure, play whatever."

So I listened to gansta rap. A lot of motherfucka this and pimpin' that.

This homegirl's got breast canca!

I was called early this morning with the results. And good news! It's a localized cancer. As far as what the scans indicate. My medical team always has to qualify its statements: "The cancer hasn't spread--according to the scans." I get it. Because of Nigel, Jase and I are seasoned to hear these sort of medical footnotes.

The human body is gross. It creates all these benign cysts and then absorbs them, kind of like growing its own food. But the scans also illuminated some of my body's history, and there were two notable growths.

One, I have a nodule in my lung. It's very common, but also indicates a remarkable illness. I had pneumonia twice--once as a child and once as an adult. Two, I have some sort of noncancerous growth near my left ovary. I had dermoid cysts removed from both ovaries nine years ago. This growth might be a detached fibroid floating out in space like a satellite moon.

These are memories that my body has never forgotten.