Jed Wolf

Less than one percent of breast cancer diagnoses occur in males. I thought this statistical rarity would make it easier to approach with humor, to treat it all as some cosmic joke. But as I sat in my car outside the Imaging Center, the phrase “What the hell?” kept echoing in my mind. Not because I was panicking about the pain and swelling in my right chest, or imagining worst-case scenarios. No, I was stuck on how to joke about it without coming across as a complete ass.

The Imaging Center looked nothing like I’d expected. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating murals that stretched up sixteen feet. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a coffee bar offered fresh-baked goods alongside an impressive selection of Keurig pods and herbal teas. I hid behind my sunglasses, watching sharp angles of afternoon light cut across the room while considering what I’d say to the radiologist.

The tablet the receptionist handed me had a hair-trigger delete button that made filling out my medical history a challenge. After struggling with the endless medication list, I gave up, scribbled something resembling a signature, and handed it back.

“Thank yew, Mr. Richard,” the receptionist said, using my long-discarded first name. I wished I had something clever to say, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t sound offensive.

Looking around, I realized I was the only male patient—the other men were clearly husbands accompanying their wives. I settled into a chair across from a couple and decided to try out my first joke.

“I’ll have a Chardonnay,” I announced, tossing my head back dramatically. When no one reacted, I quickly pivoted to my default social safety net: asking strangers where they’re from.

“Ukraine,” the woman replied.

My brain short-circuited. “I just finished reading Alexei Novotny’s memoir ‘Patriot,’” I blurted out, desperate to make a connection. “With everything happening with the invasion—”

“Who?” she asked, glancing at her husband.

“You mean Navalny,” her husband corrected, pronouncing the name properly.

“Oh, yes,” I mumbled, feeling the conversation sinking faster than the Titanic.

“I’m from Kiev,” she offered kindly. “Family still there. They went to Germany for a while to escape the bombs, but they didn’t like it and returned.”

“They preferred being bombed to Germany?”

“Yes. Kiev is home,” she said simply. “Many people want Zelensky to give up. They want lives back.”

Before I could insert my foot further into my mouth, a voice called out, “Mr. Richard.” I’d never been so grateful for an interruption.

The receptionist led me through a door hidden in one of the murals, and everything changed. The hushed inner sanctum smelled of hand sanitizer and poor ventilation. The dimly lit corridor felt oddly familiar, with doors slightly ajar revealing women in robes wearing detached, expectant expressions. It hit me suddenly—it reminded me of the gay bathhouses from my younger years, though I kept that observation to myself.

My guide deposited me in a small room with a TV and gestured to some waffled robes hanging on the wall. “Take off your shirt and sunglasses and put one of these on,” she said with a deferential chuckle. “The technician will be in shortly.”

I had barely slipped on the robe when the technician entered without knocking. “I’m Cora,” she announced, clipboard in hand. Noting my struggle with the too-small robe, she said, “Your shirt is fine,” and handed me another tablet of questions about my breast history.

“Leave your door open,” she added as she left, her tone suggesting she’d dealt with enough foolishness for one day.

The mammogram itself was an exercise in awkward positioning and unexpected pain as Cora wrestled my chest between two compression plates. Afterward, she presented my options with all the flair of a tired game show host: “There are three doors. Door number one is an MRI. Door number two is another test at a different location. Door number three, you go home. Do not leave.”

When she called me back in, her diagnosis came with what I swore was a hint of amusement: gynecomastia, a swelling of breast tissue due to hormonal changes associated with aging.

“Is there a treatment? Does it go away?”

“Talk to your doctor,” she replied, already ushering in the Ukrainian woman with a warm smile I hadn’t seen during my entire visit.

Later, after googling my condition and finding “chesticle” among the search results, I thought “What the hell?” one final time and sat down to write —the best way to process the absurd.