Fun things have dashes.
Tilt-A-Whirl...
Whack-A-Mole...
So when the time came for my first mammogram, and having heard nightmares about how awful they can be, I decided to put my own spin on it as I often do.
Mamm-O-Gram.
Andddddd I say it in a Bob Barker come on down! kind of way.
Kinda sounds like someone is sending boobs through Western Union, but at least it sounded more fun than it was supposed to. Isn't that the point of life?
So the day of the squish, they tell you to not wear deodorant. Which I of course forgot about until it was already applied. So there I am, scrubbing the bejeezus out of my armpits until the skin was raw.
RAW.
Not a good start.
Now, Im not a big sweater (and now it sounds like Im calling myself an item of clothing so let's try this again.)
Now, Im not usually one who over-perspires, but the day you're told you CAN'T wear any you just feel, well, GROSS. Im pretty sure I was oversniffing my pits.
Upon arrival, they gave me a lovely gown that opens in the front and asked me like 20 times if I wore deodorant. Okay, now I started freaking out. Apparently, this is a big deal. And despite the fact that my armpits were neon red, I couldn't help but think I missed a spot somewhere and the test results were going to run amok.
So I used their industrial strength bleach wipes on already extremely raw skin. Im pretty sure I cursed like a sailor and made some pretty primal howls as i succumbed to the burning sensation, because when I opened the door everyone was staring at me. Oh well.
After sitting in awkward silence in a little room with a bunch of other people waiting to get their boobs smooshed, my turn finally came. As I got up for my turn, I saw the looks of sympathy shot at me as if I was about to walk the Green Mile and never return.
The nurse was super clincal about the whole thing. I suppose. She squishes boobs all day. I think she was happy she had something to work with on my end. I have NO idea how they do this to flat chested women.
And actually, the first time it was kind of amusing. Kind of. The glass is see-through, so you get to watch something you've seen daily for nearly 40 years contorted in a way you've never seen them before. And geeeeeeez did they look funny. I giggled more than once, which you could tell was an abnormal reaction by the look on the nurse's face. I think she was amused at my amusement.
Who knows. Maybe she was amused by my bright red armpits. Whatever the case, it was pretty quick and painless and I was on my merry way quicker than a morning drive-thru at McDonald's.
Then the call came.
"We need you to come back in."
Oh. Shit.
My life has impeccable timing. Every vacation I have ever been on, every dance I have ever been to, good ol' mother nature loves to show up and rain on my parade. Once again, impeccable timing. I got the call the day before I was to leave to visit a guy I had recently started seeing in another state. Gah. See aforementioned post (if its still up) about the tragedy surrounding that trip. Some days, you just can't win, and this trip was one to beat the band.
They wanted me to come in as soon as possible, but seeing as how I was boarding a plane the next day and would be 2000 miles away for 5 days, that wasn't going to happen.
Needless to say, I was preoccupied for that trip.
In the back of my head, I kept going over whether or not I was able to successfully remove ALL of the deodorant. I tried really hard to at least blame the deodorant so I could get through the trip without being too weird. Weird being a relative term.
Upon returning, I went in for my follow-up. Back to the squish room I went, and following the re-squish, I went to a room that was weirdly set up. Noodles and wedges and every shape of foam you could imagine next to a stretcher/bed, which was adjacent to a computer with contraptions galore.
Shit was about to get serious.
Ive never been a flash my boobs person - AT ALL - so having someone basically ask me to walk around without my shirt on really weirded me out. So she lays me down and wedges me into the most awkward position imaginable. She then starts with this ultrasound probe thingy and less than 5 seconds in I hear her take a picture. It literally made a shutter sound. Immediately following that, she busted out a measuring tape and - using my nipple as home base, measured in the appropriate cardinal direction. As in, picture is 1.2 inches west-northwest of nipple. The whole thing was... weird.
63 measurements and 139 pictures later I was certain I was in the end stages of terminal breast cancer and I was going to die. And yes, I counted. And tried to read her face. I do that for a living, so I figured I could get SOMETHING. But she was goooooooood.
Nothing. She gave me nothing.
No look of pity, no look of encouragement, NOTHING.
Then she prints out a LONG ASS string of photos, and leaves the room. Are you effin kidding me? Not even a "you can cover up now?"
Leaves me there 1/2 naked, convinced I was about to get reallllly bad news and in my head I began thinking of the various courses of treatment.
Fifteen minutes later, the doc came in and said I needed a recheck in 6 months, but for now, all looked "okay". He explained I have really cysty boobs. Great! He made me feel like my boobs were ultra lumpy. WTF.
But I was good. For now.
And never again will I try to use Mamm-O'-Gram and Tilt-A-Whirl in the same sentence.
Me and my lumpy boobs will find something better to joke about.
