Mammogram Fun

I am very cold. My arms are stretched out in front of me so that I am able to clutch the paint-chipped handles of the machine in a death grip. I am very cold because from the waist up I am naked.

It’s mammogram time again. I hate it. Don’t look at me like that. I know I have to do this every year. I know it saves lives. I know I should be grateful for this miraculous technology. I will think of all that later. Right now I just want to get the hell out of here.

“Are you comfortable?” the nurse asks.

“Yes, thank you,” I respond through gritted teeth. “I haven’t been this comfortable since the last time I gave birth,” I add to the empty room after she leaves.

Every woman who has endured this necessary humiliation has her own pet peeves about the procedure. I have several. The first is the embarrassingly short torso-length medical gown that is barely long enough to protect my modesty. The garment makers have either tried to cut fabric costs or have simply made false assumptions about the affects of gravity on the female anatomy. It makes me break out in a nervous sweat as I walk across the public hallway and since I am prohibited from wearing deodorant or cologne, it also means I am smelly.

I am not the kind of girl who walks around the house or locker room au natural, so this is difficult. Not only am I unclothed, but the technician has tagged me like a steer at roundup time. I glance down at the stickers. L and R. Left and Right? Large and Round? Lush and Ripe? Lucy and Roberta? My mind conjures any number of combinations.

And then the final blow. I try to appreciate how hard it must be for the harried nurse to move quickly while attempting to provide a modicum of compassion. But she is very fortunate that I am in the lock and load position because her next comment nearly results in homicide.

“You’re lucky. The young girls with firm, perky breasts have a much harder time of it,” she remarks cheerfully as she continues to compress the plates another notch or two.

At home later I fume anew over the accumulated indignities: cold, naked, vulnerable, tagged, humiliated, and insulted. Oh yes. And one other thing.

Alive.