Boobs.

Mom had a mammogram earlier this week, and it's funny talking about mammograms with mom because we're naturally silly people. We make light of most things. Smashing boobs between plates, for example. It's silly.

And nothing is taboo in our family. We can joke about most anything, discuss subjects like sex (like the fact that mom and dad have only had sex twice, once in 1979 and again in 1981) and say words like "shit" and "fuck" (rarely, but it's been known to happen).

Mammograms are just something you get when you're older than 40, you know. Precautionary measures. Stick your boob here, OK, you're good to go. Nothing ever comes of them, of course.

That's just silly.

So this morning, when mom nonchalantly told me about a nodule found in her "right boob" (it's how we roll), that, thankfully, ended up being nothing, I almost died. On the spot.

Nodules are not found in my mom's boobs. Not ever. In fact, I don't want them found in anyone's boobs. Bad things should not happen.

It was "a scare," she called it. And I bet she knew about it last night when I talked to her on the phone, but she didn't tell me. I bet she panicked and wanted to throw up and die, but she didn't say a word. She found out this morning that it was "nothing."

I thought to myself, had I known for that one day, or two, that a suspicious nodule was found during my mom's mammogram, I would've died. A scare? More like, the end of the world.

I do not like doses of reality. I don't like the knowledge that my parents are not invincible, and are, in fact, mortal human beings. It's frightening because, really, I may as well still be attached to that boob of hers. I'm a mama's girl. If she goes, I go, dammit.

And I'm not quite ready for us to go anywhere, so mom should just tell her right boob to quit being an attention whore, and go back to its room.