Glammogram

This past week, I had a dentist appointment, a gynecological exam, and today, a mammogram. 

I don’t need to tell you about the dentist since I’ve already written about that (See: Perfectly Respectable Chompers). In a nutshell, I made promises I couldn’t keep (flossing) and then Dr. B punished me with scary tools.

The gynecological exam was a pleasant surprise. I had just switched doctors, and this one really knew her way around a cervix. I didn’t even realize it was over until Dr. F. said, “All done.”

To which I replied, “That was awesome.” 

Both the doctor and nurse gave me a strange look. 

“I didn’t mean to say awesome,” I stuttered. “I just meant, it didn’t hurt.” 

I may, or may not, be invited back.

My third and final appointment, the mammogram, was the only one I didn’t dread. 

First of all, the lab’s waiting room has the comfiest couches.

And since the waiting room isn’t generally crowded, everyone has their own personal lounging spot.

But the best part is the Keurig Machine!

Now, I know a lot of you have Keurigs, and you think, Big Whoop, but for those of us who are Keurig-less, it’s a lot of whoop!

Hawaiian Hazelnut – don’t mind if I do!

Soon after, Jennifer the friendly technician will call your name.

You make some pleasant chit chat as she leads you to the changing room. Here, she hands you a soft pink gown, the color reminiscent of a rose garden.

Once changed, you follow her to the exam room, where she expertly places your breasts on the machine.

A little pressure, some light smashing, but after a few x-rays, it’s all over.

Unlike a Keurig, it’s no big whoop.

This year, however, was a whole new ballgame.

When I walked into the waiting room, two things caught my eye.

First, there was a sign attached to the Keurig machine, reading “Employees Only.”

If you don’t want the patients drinking the coffee, why put it in the waiting room?

Entrapment!

The second thing I noticed was that the room was packed.

Since every seat was taken, I stood against the wall and counted the number of women in the room.

15.

That’s 30 boobs!

For the next half hour, I stared at the Keurig, contemplating pouring myself a cup because technically I was an employee…somewhere.

Finally my name was called and my technician, Mora, led me to the changing area.

“Ties in the front,” she instructed, handing me a pink robe that was less rose garden, more salmonella chicken.

Once dressed, Mora escorted me to the room.

In the room, Mora said, “We’ll start with your left.”

There was awkward silence as Mora contorted and pressed my flesh like playdough. Jennifer would have been chatting it up to make me feel more comfortable, but Mora just let out a string of exasperated sighs.

My left breast was clearly disappointing her.

Finally, she positioned it just right on the breast shelf* and pushed a button that immediately increased pressure.

For those of you who have never had a mammogram, envision your appendage in a vice grip.

Fun, eh?

The machine squeezed…

Tight.

Tighter.

Holy Mammogram! 

Then, she walked away and pushed a button. “Don’t breathe!” she commanded. 

I gulped air.

A little warning would have been nice.

The machine hummed as it took the images.

I continued to hold my breath.

More pictures.

What is this, Glamour Shots?

Finally, she returned and pushed the button that pardoned my breast.

She did the same shenanigans on the other breast.

Little did I know Mora was about to take it up a notch.

“So, this part might hurt a little bit,” she said.

As opposed to the fun we were having earlier.

Mora turned the machine at a diagonal and once again smashed my breast into submission.

Tight.

Tighter.

$%&*!

Man, I’d kill to be having a pap smear right now.

“I don’t remember this hurting so much before,” I gasped.

Mora nodded. “It’s the new machine.”

Is it, Mora?

Mora pushed a button and yelled, “Don’t breathe!”

I inhaled, waiting for the humming of the machine, but it didn’t come.

“Hmm,” Mora said.

I wanted to address her “hmm,” but I was supposed to be holding my breath.

“Computer error, ” Mora said.

She fiddled around with the computer.

I tried to think happy thoughts.

Will I explode from the pressure or pass out from lack of oxygen?

Finally, I exhaled. “Can you let me out?”

“Let me try just one more thing,” Mora said, punching a bunch of keys.

So me and my oppressed mammary glands waited.

And waited.

I’m sad to say we’re still waiting.

Mora promised that she’ll fix the computer** error any minute.

Until then…

Please send Jennifer!

*The technical term is breast plate, in case you were wondering.

**Human