I am sitting quietly in the oversized brown and wine colored chair.
Legs crossed politely.
Eyes perusing the lobby for something to look at. There are no magazines. No people. Nothing to do but look around.
Just a low-lighted-simply-classy decorated lobby. The receptionist is exceptionally friendly. She has to be, knowing what we, the women here are about to do.
After being directed to my “dressing room,” I heed the instructions given by yet another friendly woman, to put on the gown and keep it open in the front.
Lovely.
Only women can work here I think laughing to myself. Can you imagine a man working here? He would think he died and went to heaven!
Once inside the x-ray room I realize it is just me, the overly polite x-ray tech, and the monstorous x-ray machine.
I always wondered what it would look like, the large machine intended to squish my breasts into flatter pancakes than thaey already are, and now it towers over me…faces me…stares me down.
The x-ray tech begins to talk ever so politely and I interrupt.
“Really? I just lay it out there on that table? Just like that?”
Yes. She says flatly.
That was supposed to be funny I think to myself. Come on, throw me a bone here lady! Plopping my x-small breasts that had the life sucked out of them by three overzealous boys will be quite the challenge for you.
“Do you have a machine small enough for mine!” I say, my words dripping with humor.
Silence.
I try again. “So you do this all day long?” I say lightly while she pinches my skin with her hands and tightens the vice down on my breast.
“I have to do something all day.” She says flippantly.
Really? Come on lady!!!
I am in no way trying to lessen and/or undermine the serious of breast cancer and/or the seriousness of a mammogram. But I am just digging for the serious lady in the room to help me out here. The entire process goes beyond what I consider embarassing. Plopping my pre-pubescent looking breasts on a table and watching them flatten into nothing while some stranger wraps her un-gloved hands around them pushing and pulling them into place.
Is this some form of torture? Some form of punishment for being a woman? Some angry scorned man’s way at getting back at the female population?
I want to say all these things and many more. But I don’t. She doesn’t seem to take my hints that a sense of humor here MIGHT help the situation for me.
So I stand. I say nothing. I stare at the cream colored walls.
Then I blurt out, “Geesh, you could have a tv on the wall, or a radio, or a dot on the wall…something we can look at.”
“Oh no, then you might get all caught up in the TV or something!” She quickly responds like a mother reprimanding her daughter.
Wow.
“Do you want to see the images?” She asks me.
“Sure, I say.”
“Wow, they are so clear!
“Yes, our machine does really well with younger more dense breasts.” She says looking straight in my eyes.
Did she just call my breasts dense?
***
So when the pinching and pulling and squishing and flattening is finally done, I redress and skit and skiddadle as quick as I can out of there, praying I don’t have to go back.
But, what I don’t get is why …why couldn’t this woman smile? Or laugh? Or giggle? Or something!
GEESH!!!
Happy Living!
Lee
