I Am Your Mammographer and Here’s How I’ll be Making You Uncomfortable Today
I’m going to maneuver your breast on this cold, iron plate like I’m kneading the shit out of sourdough bread.
Welcome to C.U. Radiology. I will be your mammographer today and in charge of all the uncomfortable things we’ll be doing for the next half hour.
Please fill out this paperwork. Even though you’ve been coming here for years, it’s important that you provide us with this same information every year. It’s our way of making sure you are in touch with how much weight you’ve put on, if you can still remember the date of your last period and the name of that STD you got in high school. If not, just give us your 23andMe DNA profile passcode.
Next, use this very small dressing room with the curtains that don’t entirely close to strip naked from the waist up. Put on this crepe paper gown, open to the front. The little ties will give you the illusion that you can tie the gown closed for modestly. They’re not long enough to tie bupkis. We suggest you close the gown and fold your arms over your chest so your breasts won’t be flapping around while you wait for your turn in the hard plastic chairs with the other patients.
Step into this very cold room. We keep it cold not, as you might think, because it will numb any sensation in your breasts but because we get hot running from exam room to exam room. Trust us, nothing will numb the sensation in your breasts once we start the mammogram.
I’m going to maneuver your breast on this cold, iron plate like I’m kneading the shit out of sourdough bread. Then I’ll lower this glass contraption onto your breast until it feels like your breast has been caught in an elevator door. Put one hand here on the machine and float the other one somewhere above your head. Throw your head back over your shoulder, rapturously, like you’re a swimsuit model on the beach.
If you’ve managed to contort yourself into a position only your yoga instructor can pull off, you’ll be looking at that picture on the wall of an empty hammock strung between two palm trees on a tropical island. No, we don’t know where that place is, but I’m guessing you’d rather be there right now.
Now the other breast. Lean in. Mash your cheek against the machine. Twist your head back over your other shoulder and pretend you’re having a screaming orgasm or riding a bull in a rodeo. You’ll know you’re in the right position if your breast feels like an inflamed pimple about to pop and you can see that modern art picture on the other wall that looks like a Rorschach test. Hold your breath and count the number of animals you can make out. I’ll be fiddling with all the knobs at the control station in between checking my phone for text messages from my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend.
The doctor will now do your physical exam. While he’s imagining he’s playing Chopin’s Waterfall étude on your breasts, he’ll ask you if you’ve done anything special recently to avoid the awkwardness of you both knowing that this is the most action your breasts have seen all year.
Retrieve your paper gown from the floor with what little dignity you have left, and clutch it to your chest while you nonchalantly walk back to your dressing room.
Good news! Your breasts are just fine, although we see why your former boyfriends would disagree. Go home, take an anti-inflammatory, have a glass of wine and wait for the insurance company to decline coverage of your bill.
Nancy Franklin’s writing has been published in Points in Case, Slackjaw, Little Old Lady Comedy, and The Los Angeles Times. Follow her at mirthquakes.com or on Twitter.
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