Super Woman

That mammogram that I had in my early 20s proved to be nothing. No, really. Nothing. In fact, I believe that doctor's exact words were, "Well, I guess it's nothing." The words "I guess..." aren't really something a patient ever wants to hear from her doctor, but I was in my 20s and really, I was more concerned that my VCR would foul up and not record Friends on Thursday night.


"Just keep an eye on it and let me know if there are any changes."

I would love to have kept an eye on it. I would have loved to have noted any changes to it. The truth was that I didn't even know what it was. I never felt it; I had certainly never seen it. So, I just continued watching Friends on Thursday nights, eventually got married and eventually turned 40.

Ahhh--- 40. The magical time when pap smears are not the only embarrassing covered-by-insurance moment in a woman's life. I had my first official mammogram.  This mammogram showed something. That mammogram led to a sonogram. That sonogram led to a spot compression. (I interrupt this blog post to tell you that Cheney would've dropped water boarding in favor of spot compression if he'd really been into counter intelligence.)  That spot compression led to an MRI. That MRI led to a fun afternoon of humiliation.

The technician called me back and the weird questions started.

"Are you wearing braces or other orthodontics?" (Big grin to show no metal)

"Do you have a metal allergy?" (NKA)

"Do you have a tattoo?" (I do! Wanna see?)

"Do you have breast implants?" (Ummm... B-cups, yo.)

"Do you have any rods or pins or other foreign objects in your body?" (IUD. Let's keep it in place, please.)

Finally, I was given scrub pants and a 35-count sheet to drape over my body. I went into the magic room with one attendant waiting for me. I came out of the room and there were four. One pulled the platform out and then went to the control room. One helped me get situated  with my butt in the air and my arms straight out in front of me like I was Superman flying... I mean Super Woman.  When I was situated, the weirdness began.

The positioner was now at my front inserting my IV and the two other attendants were on either side of my cupping my boobs. No. I'm not kidding. I raised my head to see who was fondling my hanging hooters.

"Keep your head down," the IV girl said, "We don't want you banging anything." That was really weird because when I got that much groping, I was pretty sure banging would ensue.  IV girl inserted my ear plugs; the side kicks were still clutching my chesticles; the machine then came alive.

I was slid backward into the machine and once my sisters were safe and secure from the possible pinching from the machine, I was left alone to enjoy my 45-minute photo shoot with the magnets.

At one point, I was certain I had peed my pants and expressed a not so quiet, "Well, sh!+."

To which the technician, who could hear my every word asked, "You doing OK?"

Eventually, my machine quieted down and my ta-ta escorts returned to make sure I slid out unpinched. The radiologist made his way to my room and examined my knockers and declared, "I guess it's nothing... Let's follow up with another mammogram in six months just to make sure there's no change."

I breathed easier. I shook with relief as I dressed myself, being the only one actually touching my ta-tas at the time. And six months later, I went back for my follow-up.

Keep reading -- it has a good ending.