A Tale of Two Titties

(November 27, 2002)

"I stole a hospital johnny," I said, holding up a folded cotton thing for Hub to see.

"Why?"

"Because they left me waiting for an hour and fifteen minutes and THEN couldn't tell me anything, because the Concord office didn't send my file and they couldn't compare the mammograms! I was like, I'm takin' this."

"You do the funniest things when you're angry. Warning to everyone: stay on your good side."

Fuck, yeah.

Since my late teens, when, due to obvious generous acquistions bestowed by the great god Puberty...

...and suddenly things like breast health became part of my awareness, I would dutifully and regularly feel myself up. Probing, as instructed, for "changes" or "thickening" or what have you. Invariably I'd find myself asking "Is this something? Is THIS?" glaring accusingly at my areolas and what mystery they may hold.

Then when I was about twenty-five or so, I decided that relying solely on this whole "breast self exam" thing was for other women. It's just not exact enough to mean anything for me. You see, breasts are complicated. Don't forget, they're not only warm and soft and pretty things-- there's biological intelligence in there, and it feels like stuff once you start massaging around trying to feel stuff. So, I still did the self-exam, but I also scheduled a mammogram. It was like a battle of logic getting them to give me one at such a young age. The science behind the recommended mammogram age (around forty, unless breast cancer runs in the family) is that young breasts, on an X Ray, appear very white all over. Older breasts will only show abnormalities (lumps) as white.

They ended up indulging me by just taking two screens, one on each side, instead of the usual four.

Haven't had one and don't know what it's like? I'll get to that in a minute.

So that first mammogram in my twenties-- it turned out I wasn't entirely wrong. I happen to have what you call "fibrous" breasts, meaning, you betcha babe, I was totally feeling more busy-ness than most women feel when they feel around...you know what I mean. This is enhanced by caffeine. If I wanted to, I could omit caffeine from my diet and...HA HA HA, I almost got through that without laughing.

So anyway, I get a mammogram about every three years, and today was the day.

Most women, even ones my own age who normally aren't privy to this particular joy yet, have at least, as part of regular boob-talk, had the process explained to them. So if you don't have boobies (i.e., if you are a boy), the best way I can explain a mammogram is...well, it feels like they're trying to juice you. NO, that's not giving you the full effect. Okay, you know your dick? Take it out. No really, it's okay, we've all seen them, it's no big deal. Have someone-- a total stranger with cold hands, if you want to get the full effect -- take your manhood and walk away with it. No no, boy, stand back-- you don't get to follow your penis, it's going over there without you. First, it's got to be stretched out onto a kind of metal slab. Once it's extended to a surprising degree (hey, you're Plasticman!) you have to then drop one of those really really big books on it, like a thesaurus or a dictionary. But first make sure the book has been in the freezer for about a year.

Annnd, SMILE! BZZZZP. Howzabout a wallet-sized set for grandma?

My appointment was at 2:00 today, all the way in Westford. I needed to allow about 45 minutes to get there, plus I had to arrive 15 minutes before my appointment. Plus I wasn't entirely sure where the place was, so I allowed a 15 minute buffer. I left at frickin' 12:30. I got there in plenty of time, and they took me right in. I was half-naked in an enormous johnny (I felt like I was wearing a sheet) in no time. Sitting with four other women in the inner-waiting room. No one spoke or made eye contact or acknowledged the existence of other humans on the planet. They read Rosie and Redbook and People, and I challenged myself at Name That Soft-Rock Tune and secretly mocked their footwear. Yes, I had the best shoes. And the soft rock was all Joe Cocker, Joe Jackson, Huey Lewis, Barry White.

Man, I gotta get some Barry White. Yo ma first...ma last...my EVERYTHANG!

After the titty-squeezing chamber, they put us back into the waiting room to...well, wait some more, this time for the radiologist to tell us what she saw in the tea leaves. Y'know...you're still half-naked in the sheet, your boobs have been harassed, you're nostalgic for your bra, no one's talking...a laughing fit is NOT what you need. Right? Right.

But this is what I hear on the soft rock radio between bouts of Eagles and Barry Manilow: "Come to Burger King and try our new breast tenders!"

Oh yes. I lost it.

And apparently, since no one else laughed, breast tenders was either really really funny and they're just humorless hags, OR I was stupid and dazed and befuddled from waiting over an hour.

Traffic on the way home was like a clusterfuck of epic proportions...I got home at frickin' 5:00.

From 12:30 to 5:00. For a doctor's appointment. Of course I was a disheveled, seething, sputtering wreck by the time I walked in the door.

So. Anybody need a hospital johnny?