Booby-cake, booby-cake, mam-mo-gram,
Smash me a boob as fast as you can;
Pull it, squish it, and mark it with a B,
Crank that mother down for doctor to see.
I was very excited to hear that my mammogram center had updated their equipment to the latest 3-D imaging machine.
“Finally!” I thought, “an exam that won’t leave my bodacious tatas tortured!”
My enthusiasm drained, however, when I heard those fateful words.
“The tighter the better for an accurate image. Let me know when you can’t stand it anymore.”
Crank, crank, crank. I fight back a tear and she stops.
“Hold your breath,” she instructs me. My breathing is already shallow from the pain and I fear I may not have enough oxygen in my lungs to sustain me through the machine’s rotation, but I know that if I pass out, I’ll end up with my right one hanging way lower than my left one, and somehow I manage to remain upright.
I try not to hate her. She’s just doing her job and by the time she needs one of these exams, they will have a pain-free method.
But for now I try to pretend I don’t mind having this young booby-tech treating my lady lumps like they were pizza dough.
Finally, the assault ends and I head to the bathroom where I apply deodorant. The bathroom is lovely…updated sink, flowers, hand towels stacked in a neat pile, soap and lotion…and a picture that—without my assistance—hangs lower on one side than the other.
“Hold your breath,” I say, and snap a photo. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”
I head home, wondering if all this is really necessary, and decide that I just might skip next year’s appointment. “The girls” will be tickled.
