Right, so I don’t cook well and by “pancakes”, I mean boobs. Flat boobs.
I had my first mammogram today (jazz hands). Yep.
First off, I have fears on the boob front. I am big and my boobs are really big. They are a cup size of the alphabet that a scrap of fabric cannot contain (e.g.G). “H” on a bad day. And Mom had boob cancer which she kicked to the curb handily, but she’s smaller and healthier and richer and retired. And lucky. And did what the doctors told her to do. It takes a village.
Anyway, so big fears to go with my big boobs because of family history and my seemingly chronic fatigue and weird bumps on them and all that jazz.
Mammogram. Jazz hands!
Second, I had no idea what to expect. Now I do. No biggie.
I took some pictures. The first two I took accidentally. Not sure how it happened, but okay. I can roll with that.
Here is where you take your top off. I may have cropdusted this room a little bit as my nerves make me toot. And I had homemade burritos last night so you can guess the wake of stank I left behind me.
My head’s down in shame here for aforementioned cropdusting.
These were some handy instructions (get it? handy? eh? eh?) posted in the dressing room. There is no hand-washing involved in a mammogram, but thankfully, this sign explains that washing your hands means washing your hands. There was some pit-washing however, in my case, because DAMN. Burritos + nerves + not allowed to wear deodorant = B. effin O. And no little boob-fondling xray lady needs to smell that crap.
And lastly, here she is… the Squishomatic 4000…
It didn’t hurt. I hear the little-boobed ladies have more trouble with it. For me, it was more of a… plop. There you go. Get to squishing.
Now the hard part… WAITING. I hear tell that a lot of first mammograms require follow ups because they are trying to figure out if all your little booby-quirks are normal and not dangerous, but that seems pretty crazy-making in light of the fear machine that is steadily pumping worries into my brain. My doctor swears she is going to call me tomorrow, mostly because she felt really bad that last time I went in for blood work it took her TWO MONTHS and FOUR PHONE CALLS to get her to tell me my results. Of course, in light of that experience, I am understandably doubtful as to her potential to deliver on her promise.
But she damn well better or I will go all bitch on her ass.