Recently I had a mammogram. Each time I’ve gone through this “routine”, its felt like being squeezed and manipulated within an inch of my life. I felt like dough being pushed through a pasta machine. Quite a picture. It seems to depend on the technician too. Sometimes it’s fine. Other times, well . . . it’s, you know. Afterwards it feels like everyone can TELL where you’ve been.
Holding my breath while being gripped in a vice and standing at an awkward angle, barely touching the floor, isn’t pretty either. I happen to be on the short side. By the time I could breathe again, my lungs were screaming for air. I thought for sure I’d exhaled too soon and messed up the picture. I thought I’d have to do it all over again but it turned out fine.
A friend also had a mammogram recently. She’s what I’d call flat-chested and extremely slim. I happened to be thinking of her being put through the same paces and frankly I wondered how that could be managed.
I don’t know what made me ask (out loud) but suddenly it just popped out of my mouth:
“I’m not that well-endowed, but I wonder what happens when you have women who are flat-chested?
“Same thing,” the technician said matter-of-factly.
Huh? How can anyone stretch something that isn’t there and press it between two plates to get a digital picture? I don’t know what I was expecting to hear but her answer made me bite my lip. I felt my friend’s pain.
We know that men can have breast cancer too but they don’t go for mammograms, do they? If they did, um, I bet they would have gentler technicians, warmer hands, climate controlled rooms and some other modus operandi. Isn’t that the way it seems to go?