Good Morning, Mammogram!

My breasts and I headed to the hospital at 7:20 this morning. (Via car, no biking today. The scarecrow guy is still riding by a couple of times a day looking for corn after last week's caper. And Kevin says I can't have a pet.) Why did I schedule this thing for this early? This week?

If you haven't had a mammogram, discard all the pain filled stories you've heard. And certainly schedule one if you're in my age range. (You know, that certain age.) The mammogram itself isn't bad. (Thanks, honey, for doing your part in getting these things used to being handled.) It's the lead up and wait that gets to me. The perky technician--who won't be old enough for her own mammogram for another 18 years--tells me to take off everything from the waist up and put on a "gown" that opens in the front. Dusty rose. It's not even a gown, more of a cape; shorter than the ones you get at a good hair salon and with one flimsy ribbon to tie. Center front.

Someone obviously needs to rethink what and where we're trying to cover here.

Miss Pre-Mammogram collects me and goes over a few questions and instructions. Ol' Dusty Rose is kind of cool here; I mean, once the breast feeding years are over how many times in life does a civilized woman get to rakishly toss her cape off one shoulder and reveal a bare breast? (note to my daughters...I do not want a detailed list of venues and dates where you may have executed this very move...)

We go through the contortions of breast placement on shelves which surely have been stored in the freezer, the infamous compression, "hold your breath," snap a picture and release. Reposition in another come hither pose. "Right arm here, down more, push in closer, stretch up on your toes..." More awkward than agony. Miss P-M--who is a very competent technician even though my favorite bra is older than she is--leads me back to the waiting room and instructs me to wait, in my dusty rose glory, while they take a look at the films.

This is where the territory gets rough. Like the bathroom line in McDonald's, women like to make small talk in these places. I apparently missed that female trait and prefer to wait in silent invisibility. No such luck today, my stealth mode isn't working. An identically dusty rose caped woman smiles. I am going to have to be pleasant, possibly friendly. Crap. I nod and try to decide if she's new to the arena or in the midst of waiting for her own clear to go signal. And I try not to make eye contact, the implicit symbol of accessibility. Doesn't matter, she mentions the weather. I smile. She asks a question. Great. Now I have to respond. Another encounter. So we chat. In our common half dressed mammogram splendor. She gets the all clear and continues to chat me up while she's in the changing room. Ack! This is too similar to the through-the-stall-door bathroom chatter that I'm so lousy at. If she flings open anything to show me the incredible storage capabilities, I am going to hurl.

Miss Pre-Mammogram comes back in. I can't catch a gynelogical break these days. They want "more films." Apparently the left side isn't as naturally photogenic as the right side. And Talky Talkerton has finished changing and continued chatting. A reality that continues as she walks with me across the hall to the refrigerated meat locker radiology room on her way out. Her "Good Luck" as I head back toward the atom smasher makes me pause. Good luck? Do I need good luck?

Two more shots of the reluctant leftie and I'm good to go. Presumably for another year but now there's that whole "good luck' question floating in the air. I am encountered out for this week. Where's freakin' George Clooney when a girl needs him?