‘I Was Told You Were Good at Giving Bad News’
My wife, Meredith, and I were having dinner at a place we’d been wanting to try since it opened. The Brooklyn restaurant, self-described as a “Jew-ish” bistro, was as cozy and familiar as I’d hoped.
The delicacies — latkes topped with slices of smoked sable, a gin martini washed in pickle brine — appealed to me as an epicure and a descendant of shtetl stock.But on that Thursday night something was off; not with the food, but with me.
Six days earlier, I’d undergone a biopsy of my right breast, after two irregular mammograms — one routine, one follow-up — revealed what appeared to be calcium deposits.
My wife assured me that biopsies, like follow-up mammograms, become more frequent as we get older. And, she said, they might turn up false positives — especially when your breasts are as dense as memory foam, as mine are.
