Well, for me, Wednesday was the day that women around the world dread 364 days out of each and every year…at least, it’s the day they should dread. Oh hell, that’s not right either. I don’t mean it should be a dreadful day…I just mean they should be doing it every year. Cut to the chase? Okay…mammogram day. Today was the day I was scheduled for my yearly mammogram. The big M, the dreaded vice, the contemporary equivalent of the rack, a modern day torture device that I have no doubt was invented by a man with a deep-seated hatred for the opposite sex.
Think about it! Only a man who hates women would come up with an idea like that. If a woman had invented it, the damn thing would be cushy and pink. You’d be able to sit down while it gently gave you a massage, ran warm water over your feet, and you’d be able to get espresso out of the little compartment on the side.
But no…instead, we’ve got a cold, chrome monster that morphs like a transformer into whatever position can inflict the most pain. You have to stand at an impossible angle with your boob pointed off to the left or right, your feet pointed straight in front of you, your chin in the air, your shoulder limp at your side, and one hand stretched around the back to hold onto a handle the nice man conveniently provided…Thank You, Mr. Inquisitor! And you do all this while the nice lady smiles, gropes your boob, squishes it, moves it left and right, rolls it into a ball, flattens it like pie crust, and then pushes the button that makes another cold plate drop on top of it like a falling elevator.
It’s all you can do to not scream as your boob is squished like a slow-minded squirrel trying to cross the highway. You hold on for dear life and draw blood as you bite down on your tongue, all the while the machine is squeezing your left tit so hard that the blood shoots backward, up into your brain. I don’t think blood’s supposed to run through a vein in both directions…it tends to create a whirlpool effect, making you feel like you’re about to pass out…which is probably the only way they can get you to hang onto that damned machine!
Now, it wouldn’t be bad if they only did this once. I could maybe take that…or even twice I would understand…I do, after all, have two breasts. But NO! They gotta take two or three runs at each side. Gotta get a good shot…a good picture…a clear view. Of what? My armpit? My collarbone? Because they are ALL squished in there right along with my poor aching ta-ta. The whole test takes maybe fifteen or twenty minutes…then I spend the next 364 days recovering my dignity, swearing I’ll never do it again, and building up the courage to finally schedule another appointment.
Now, as if that isn’t bad enough…apparently, it’s important to keep track of your nipples during this process. The story goes that you have to know where the nipple is at all times in the picture because it tends to create a shadow that can be misinterpreted. The nice woman with the annoying smile explained that the breast tends to roll and the nipple winds up in awkward positions during the test. Ya think? I can tell ya just exactly how that happens!!! Anyway, she says they must keep track of it – hence, the chilly metal BB they tape directly to the center of each nipple. Thank God, I only have two!
So, now that the test is over and you’ve survived, it’s time to get dressed and the nice woman with that smile that’s starting to piss me off says, “Oh, and honey, don’t forget to remove those BB’s before you put your bra on.”
Crap! She stuck ‘em on there with tape…now I have to peel ‘em off. This isn’t going to be pretty! I stand in the dressing room naked from the waist up, staring down and building up the courage to rip off the first one. I remember this part from last year and I briefly wonder if it would really be all that uncomfortable to just wear them until they slough off on their own. But with my luck, I’d forget and end up in jail when I set off the metal detectors my next trip through airport security. There’s an Kodak moment for ya! No, I’ll do it. So I take a deep breath, get a good grip on the edge of the tape, and yank real fast…like mom taught you to do with stuck-on band-aids. YEOW!!! Now I’m panting, trying to get breath into my lungs which have slammed shut from the pain. I just can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am that I don’t have hair on my nipples. Although, if I did, it would be one way to get insurance to pay for a good waxing.
Apparently, there was a problem in the past with those little BB tapes not staying in place…because some jackass has gone and improved the adhesive. And when I find him, I’m going to beat him to death with my purse. Crap! I still have one to go. Okay, long story short, I got the other one off, got my clothes on, and fled that torture chamber like my ass was on fire.
Ya know, I commented to the nice woman as she was grinding my left boob into the cold plate on the machine that if men had to take this test, they probably would quickly invent a more user-friendly contraption.
She chuckled and said, “Well, you know, some men do get breast cancer, so we occasionally have to put their breasts in it too.”
I stared at her like her last brain cell was squeezed into that device right next to my throbbing ta-ta. Men’s breasts? Are you kiddin’ me? Hell no! I had other body parts in mind!!!
Well, that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Hold on tight now ‘cuz we’re gonna go real, real fast!
Love ya,
Kayce
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