During my first “yearly” medical exam in about seven years, I was told that I had reached that magical age. I needed a mammogram! I thought I could make an appointment and put that off a while, but NO. I was led immediately into a little room and the deed was done. It really wasn’t that bad. Not that I’d want to do it every day, but..you know…doable.
That started a whole series of events I’m not likely to forget, that ended with me undergoing a test at the hospital, sent there by the surgeon who saw me after the attack of the killer mammogram. All was well, but what a month that was last summer. Read on:
Within a week of the initial test, I was called and told to come back for another one. They’d found a “dense area” and needed to take a closer look. The mammogram, at that point, turned into something far more sinister than just a mere medical test. My friends, they took my poor defenseless boob, slammed it onto a vise grip and smashed it beyond reason until I was sure it would pop like the proverbial zit. (Yes, I am aware that zits are not proverbial.) But had it popped, I would have been the one that all mammograms, from that point on, was used for comparison purposes…and I was sure that was going to happen. Can’t you hear the techs talking:
“Don’t put any more pressure on that one, Bertha, you remember the Meg-Phenomenon!"
"Yes, Gertie, I heard! Hers popped like a zit."
“...and I heard she wouldn’t even clean it up.”
Ahh, the wonders of modern medicine and my imagination.
