Hey folks, I’m back…just like a bad penny. LOL
Sorry for the absence, but I’ve been busy retiring—which is done now, so
I can now blog and write more books.
YEAH!!! So today’s my turn to
blog. Here goes nuthin’.
Well, for me, Tuesday of last week 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
dreaded day…I just mean they should be doing it every year even though it ain’t
fun. Cut to the chase? Okay…Mammogram Day. It was the day I was scheduled for
my yearly mammogram—which I haven’t had done in over two years. My very dear
friend, Judi Thoman/Brit Blaise, recently passed from breast cancer. So I vowed to get current on my mammogram in
her honor…and I encourage every one of the women out there reading this to do
the same. Remember, someone loves you
very much…do it for them!
Anyway, in honor of Judi/Brit, I decided to resurrect an old mammogram
blog that I did a couple of years ago.
It’s a story that all women can relate to and never becomes
irrelevant. So I hope you get a laugh
out of it and take this opportunity to schedule yours!
Well, today’s the day…Mammogram Day! 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 and warm. 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 or wine (your
choice) 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. I swear, when she dropped that plate on me, the wrinkles
pulled out of my face and my eyebrows touched my nose…sort of the opposite of a
face lift.
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? My jowls?
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! I think she stuck ‘em on there with Gorilla Glue…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 a 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 might 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!!!
That’s my story, impossible and important, and I’m
stickin’ to it. Go get yours today…PLEASE!
Hold on tight now ‘cuz we’re gonna go real, real fast!
Love ya,
Kayce
Thanks for the laugh :)
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