Unwelcome News

Last Edit July 8, 1999

Today I made it in for a mammogram. I've had them before. They are not that bad.
For men to figure this out, take one testicle and squeeze for a few minutes - not hard enough to destroy it --- well, you get the idea.
First they have you disrobe, from the waist up.
Of course, you've spent the day without deodorant. Or powder. Or perfume. And it's hot out.
Then, they dress you in a thin paper gown. That tears easily.
"Yes, we know it's too fragile but we have five boxes to use up."
Open in the front.
A silly tie. (Why?)
Next, they parade you down a hall (mixed sexes present). That's OK. Having given birth in front of a nursing class, nothing phases me.
The room you enter has the modern day equivalent of a torture chamber implement.
It stands there with plates and buttons. A one-legged sentry.
Now you slip out of the robe. The whole time the attempt is made to keep one breast covered while squeezing the bejeebers out of the other one.
They "flow" one side of you onto the plate.
Put your arms in strange positions.
Lean you in.
And squeeze you with the descending foot-pedal-operated top plate.
You are now a sandwich.
"Don't move."
Like I am about to. Moving is a physical impossibility.
They zap one side and repeat the process.
My arm had been pinched so hard onto the frame that it was going to sleep.
Once this is done, they rotate the machine.
Squeeze everything the other way.
This requires that you hold the other half out of the way while leaning forward and raising your chin.
Sadistic form of yoga.
You are then paraded back to the "dressing room" which invariably is a small closet with a cloth-curtained wall and 4-year old magazines, and told not to dress yet.
And abandoned.
I sat.
And I sat.
I finished flipping through the magazine.
Taking too long.
Not a good sign.
The doctor appeared at last and said calmly, "The areas have increased since 1997 and two calcified areas have appeared. We want to see you in 6 months to decide on a biopsy."
Ooops.
I calmly redress.
I put on lipstick.
I get my jewelry off the stuffed toy I had wrapped it around - a beanie baby in my purse.
I drive 280 to 85 to 237 and back to work.
Made a note to call my doctor.
I e-mail my older child.
I think it's time to visit his leather shop for boots, shorts, vest, dog collar and a whip.
Might as well flaunt them while I have them.
Romantic Times Convention Vampire Ball - told you I wanted to be the dungeon master.
I was planning breast reduction surgery. Didn't want to bounce of Fabio's chest anymore.
But I was planning to do it on my terms.
Still am.