So in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and my recent milestone birthday, I had a mammogram today.
I thought it would be a great idea to get this done in my local doctor’s office rather than the massive radiology building downtown. Of course I planned this well before I discovered this office has become the apparent world epicenter of the swine flu.
Half the patients in the waiting area were wearing face masks and there was much sneezing and hacking. I tried to fill out the paperwork using only my elbows so my hand wouldn’t touch the communal pen, but that proved difficult.
The magazine rack? Empty. A sign said: “Due to the large number of cases of swine flu (H1N1) we will not be providing magazines at the present time.” Eww. Not the kind of thing someone like me needs to read. After years of inner turmoil and debate I had almost convinced myself that it was okay to read magazines in doctors’ offices, at least in the supposed “well waiting” areas. No more. One step forward, two steps back.
Anyway, when it was time for my mammogram, as I stood there in all my (8 years post-breastfeeding, marble in a tube-sock) glory, the technician asked, with a straight face, “Do you have implants?” Now I know she was just following policy, akin to 7-11’s “We Card Anyone Under 100 years Old,” but STILL. If what the technician saw today had ever been touched by a plastic surgeon’s knife, there’d be a lawsuit out there with my name as plaintiff.
The actual smooshing? Worse than I remembered—by the time she took the pics my boobs were somewhere between the thickness of a toaster strudel and a frozen waffle-- but I’m glad I got it done.
I hope you’ll remember to make an appointment, too.
I thought it would be a great idea to get this done in my local doctor’s office rather than the massive radiology building downtown. Of course I planned this well before I discovered this office has become the apparent world epicenter of the swine flu.
Half the patients in the waiting area were wearing face masks and there was much sneezing and hacking. I tried to fill out the paperwork using only my elbows so my hand wouldn’t touch the communal pen, but that proved difficult.
The magazine rack? Empty. A sign said: “Due to the large number of cases of swine flu (H1N1) we will not be providing magazines at the present time.” Eww. Not the kind of thing someone like me needs to read. After years of inner turmoil and debate I had almost convinced myself that it was okay to read magazines in doctors’ offices, at least in the supposed “well waiting” areas. No more. One step forward, two steps back.
Anyway, when it was time for my mammogram, as I stood there in all my (8 years post-breastfeeding, marble in a tube-sock) glory, the technician asked, with a straight face, “Do you have implants?” Now I know she was just following policy, akin to 7-11’s “We Card Anyone Under 100 years Old,” but STILL. If what the technician saw today had ever been touched by a plastic surgeon’s knife, there’d be a lawsuit out there with my name as plaintiff.
The actual smooshing? Worse than I remembered—by the time she took the pics my boobs were somewhere between the thickness of a toaster strudel and a frozen waffle-- but I’m glad I got it done.
I hope you’ll remember to make an appointment, too.
