A Smash'n'Grab Session

Yesterday I survived the medically-sanctioned "smash-n-grab" session known as The Annual Mammogram.
I got onto the annual schedule after the Tiny Calcified Spot showed up on the films a few years back. Now everything is digital and, one assumes, in High Def if not 3-D or Surround-Sound.
For those of you who've never had the experience, you're in for a real treat.

First, you get ushered into the special waiting area for Radiology after checking in with NO CO-PAY. I've never figured out why. Then you get taken into a row of waiting rooms that all feed in to the room with the mammogram equipment. Next, you change into the attractive top-johnny, and sit and read a year-old magazine while the woman whose turn is currently happening has her mammogram. You get to listen to all of the patter between the technician and the other patient, such as "turn to the front a little more" and "hold your breath now". You get to hear the other woman go "Owwww" as the machine smashes her tender bits into a mush. The smaller the breasts, the more they have to be smashed between the cold metal plates. Please note: the plates are cold even though the powers-that-be have been thoughtful enough to train a hot-air blower on them.

Finally the previous patient is told to go wait in the cubicle next to yours, and the technician comes to get you. It's your turn to get little metal pasties marked Left and Right stuck on your pointy bits. Next you get to stand at the machine and be pressed like a lemon into lemonade. If you're really lucky, your hormone cycle is at its peak and your cysts will be good and sore as the technician uses her hand to stuff you more efficiently in between the plates. She tightens the plates as firmly as possible, and as you wince with pain, she steps behind her shielded area. Then, she presses a button and the vice in which your breast is being pressed tightens EVEN MORE. As soon as the x-rays have been beamed into your flesh, the plates automatically open up.

If you "don't have a lot of tissue to work with", as my friend K does, you might wind up with the technician's hand mushed between the plates along with your breast, as she struggles to reach the foot pedal machine-release that is now just out of reach.

Finally, you return to your dressing-cubicle and wait there in your half-johnny until the technician tells you that she doesn't need any more shots and that everything looks good and you may go. Or that you get to go down the hall and have an ultra-sound scan of the aforementioned cysts so that you can come back in a week and get them aspirated.

While on that table with cold goo being squeezed onto you, daydream about getting a copy of the ultra-sound pix of your cysts to post on the blog like people do with their fetal ultra-sound scans.

All kidding aside, this is a reminder to you all you gal-readers out there to remember to schedule your mammogram now. And if you're a guy, ask your special gal/mom/sis if she's up to date with her scans. And ask really nicely, in case she's hormonal.