Let’s talk mammograms, people. Specifically, my most recent not-so-fun experience. And let me be clear – in no way do I wish to discourage women from receiving this potentially lifesaving screening. But I’m going to speak honestly about the process because though it’s occasionally horrible, it’s also objectively hilarious.
I went in for my annual scan, willing myself to disassociate from what was about to happen. Anytime I must stand topless and allow a veritable stranger to aggressively manipulate me between cold metal and hard plastic, I default to self-deprecating apologies (“Sorry, you don’t have a lot to work with!”) and a general sense of numbness. But I made it through relatively unscathed and congratulated myself on prioritizing my health over the expected (and confirmed) discomfort.
Unfortunately, I had to return a week later because the radiologist “saw something.” So not only did I spend six days imagining the worst (stupid “Grey’s Anatomy!”), I had to endure Round 2 of what politely could be deemed torture. And this time my tech Karen didn’t even pretend to care that she was inflicting pain. She barked orders and maliciously squeezed, oblivious to my tears and cries of “Owww!” She left me in a special waiting room for 25 minutes, shivering in my pink gown and contemplating the appeal of Christian pop rock. And then she had the audacity to send someone else to deliver the news (Really, Karen? After all we’d been through?), which thankfully was a very anticlimactic, “Everything looks fine.”
The point is, mammograms are both important and frequently awful. Hopefully, you’ve enjoyed talking about them at my expense. You’re welcome.
Peace out.
