Mammy!

Lois: I’m getting a mammogram on Friday.

Husband: Do they ever go back to normal after they do that?

Lois: I had one done last year.

Husband: Like I said, do they ever go back to normal?

Lois: Smartass.

Yep, since everyone seems to enjoy the talk about the boobies, today we’ll be discussing mammograms.

They’re definitely not as much fun as a candygram, but it’s really not that bad. It isn’t something I’d like to have done every week, but it’s not as horrible as some people would make it out to be. Just uncomfortable and weird.

So anyway…

I dashed off to the hospital, barely giving myself enough time to find a space in the crowded parking lot. I figured there was no point in getting there early, as I’d have to wait.

Surprise—I walk into the Women’s Imaging Center and am immediately ushered into the back, where I change into one of them oh-so-stylish hospital gowns. I look in the mirror and notice that I’m dressed like a 14 year old boy—black jeans, Chuck Taylors and a Batman t-shirt. (It would be really odd to make a 14 year old boy have a mammogram, wouldn’t it? I’ll have to put that on to list of things I can do to mentally scar my kids when they’re teenagers.)

Then it’s off to the waiting room, where I peruse a copy of Martha Stewart Living and find a recipe for chicken with lemons and potatoes, that I need to look up online later, because it sounded yummy.

Suddenly, a woman appears with a tray of beverages and snacks, offering them around like we’re guests at a dinner party. (A quick look at the tray shows no gin or whiskey, so I decline.) A nice, but odd touch. Sort of like when the same hospital gave me a $25 gift certificate for the cafeteria because the OR was running late so my C-section would be a bit behind schedule. I think they’re trying to win a customer service award or something.

By now, you’re probably annoyed that boobs haven’t been discussed more. And you’re right, you were promised boobs, so let’s talk about boobs.

A minute later, I’m whisked into the Mammoroom (okay, it wasn’t called the Mammoroom, but it should be.) I’m asked a bunch of basic identifying questions, so the hospital won’t get sued for squeezing the wrong gal’s pom poms, I guess. And then the fun begins.

Off with the top. Woo-hoo!

The technician has me rest my boob in the machine, and then crushes it. I don’t look down. I don’t wanna see. Bad enough what my damn kids did to em’, I don’t need to see this.

The nice technician and I discuss her pregnancy (she’s 8 months along and hoping that her own boobs go back to normal someday too), and plastic surgery (her friend is getting a tummy tuck next week and saving up for a boob lift, to repair the damage her kids incurred on her body) and the fact that my husband is a smartass.

Both my boobs are squeezed in a variety of positions, and x-rayed for my permanent record, and then I put my top back on and go on my merry way.

To sum up: normally, I usually make guys buy me dinner first before they get to do this. But for women in a lab coat, I’m easy.

Happy Friday!

Oh, and because Cake asked for it, Friday Dance Party Song! Everyone, shake your pom poms!