Tale of Two Boobies
Well, my friends, I am getting older. Yes, as you know, I’m 40 now (I was going to say I’m in my 41st year, but that just sounds way too old!). And, in NZ, that means it’s time for your first mammogram.
Prior to the Big Squeeze on Thursday, I had no prior knowledge of what it’s like to have a mammogram except for some documentary I saw once on 60 Minutes. I can’t even remember what the subject was, but I DO remember some woman’s really ugly, vein-striped boobs squeezed like a wet sponge by that horrible machine. This was 10+ years ago, but fresh enough in my mind to cause boob-squeeze anxiety, nonetheless.
Although I had trepidation, I figured this is kinda like jumpin’ off the high dive (bad analogy as I stood there for 20 mins but ended up climbing back down the ladder). Anyway, I knew I had to just do it – and not think about it. So, I made my appointment for 3 weeks hence. Then, I just had to wait . . . . and think . . . . about my boobs squeezing in that contraption that began to appear in my mind as some 15th century torture device (I swear I saw boob-squeezing machine on a tour in some dungeon in Germany?).
To make matters worse, the NZ medical system is flawed . Case in point: I get a letter in the mail confirming my mammogram appointment and providing me with a few instructions I must follow on the day. There are big capital letters at the top of the page saying, “if you do not follow these instructions, you will not be able to keep your appointment on the day.” Eek, better follow these. They included two critical notes:
Okay, anyhoo. So this is interesting . . . perhaps the mammogram machine thingy has changed quite significantly since the 60 Minute doco. Perhaps you actually get a full body scan? I imagine a device kind of like a tanning bed – squeezing my whole body at once. My nose and boobs and toes all terribly squished to the top of the scanning bed while a lady yells, “you’re doing well Mrs Claycomb, just hold it there a few seconds…” All the while I have to pee like a banchee due to that litre of water I drank one hour ago!
These instructions are not helpful for my anxiety levels.
As I continue to obsess about the Big Squeeze, my biggest concern was that my lack of bodacious tatas was going to cause more pain than if I was well endowed. Yes, it’s no secret, I’m small. (I did realise a few years ago I am a ‘B’ cup but that was after many years of mistakenly squishing myself into an ‘A.’ And, if I am honest, there’s some room left over in the ‘B’ but it does make me feel better.)
Anyway, I digress. . .
“What if all they can squeeze in that machine are my nipples?” This is the question I keep pondering over and over and over . . . . . It’ll be like those ‘titty twisters’ the little boys used to give the little girls in elementary school. Remember those? Or were my school mates just extra perverted? The boys would yell ‘titty twister’ and run up to a girl and twist her little boob like a cork screw. (Yes, okay, this could be the root of so many of my mental problems . . . )
This is not an irrational fear, so don’t laugh at me as if I’m a freak. I spoke to a friend of mine who – before I could say anything about my fears – said how she too is small and never had a mammogram and was scared about the nipple pinch!
Well, several boob nightmares later, the day of the Big Squeeze came. On the morning, I looked again at the eating and drinking instructions and thought, “this can’t be right?” So, I actually picked up the phone to the medical centre. After explaining that I was sorry to bother, but wanted to confirm the instructions, the receptionist laughed, “Oh goodness, no. You got the wrong instructions – those are for hip scans! Just don’t wear deodorant and show up as you are!”
Whew, okay, this is good news. I’ll be smelly but I won’t pee my pants.
I show up for my appointment and I’m called into the office by the technician. While walking down the hall beside her she looks at me several times with a very puzzling look while checking her chart. “Oh! 1968, huh? You’re doing well – I thought you were way too young to be one of my patients.” (We’re now best friends).
I enter the room and she asks me to disrobe. I take off my shirt and bra and enter the mammogram area. After the compliment in the hallway, I’m expecting a ‘woo hoo, lookin’ good!’ but the second compliment never came. That’s okay, let’s get down to business.
Well, long story short is I do have enough boob to squeeze in that machine, my nipples weren’t bruised, it didn’t hurt one bit and I didn’t pee my pants.
My girlfriends, if you haven’t had yours yet, don’t fret. The Big Squeeze is no big deal.
Prior to the Big Squeeze on Thursday, I had no prior knowledge of what it’s like to have a mammogram except for some documentary I saw once on 60 Minutes. I can’t even remember what the subject was, but I DO remember some woman’s really ugly, vein-striped boobs squeezed like a wet sponge by that horrible machine. This was 10+ years ago, but fresh enough in my mind to cause boob-squeeze anxiety, nonetheless.
Although I had trepidation, I figured this is kinda like jumpin’ off the high dive (bad analogy as I stood there for 20 mins but ended up climbing back down the ladder). Anyway, I knew I had to just do it – and not think about it. So, I made my appointment for 3 weeks hence. Then, I just had to wait . . . . and think . . . . about my boobs squeezing in that contraption that began to appear in my mind as some 15th century torture device (I swear I saw boob-squeezing machine on a tour in some dungeon in Germany?).
To make matters worse, the NZ medical system is flawed . Case in point: I get a letter in the mail confirming my mammogram appointment and providing me with a few instructions I must follow on the day. There are big capital letters at the top of the page saying, “if you do not follow these instructions, you will not be able to keep your appointment on the day.” Eek, better follow these. They included two critical notes:
- Eat a light breakfast on the morning of your scan (will I be experiencing nausea??!)
- Drink one litre of water one hour prior to your appointment. Your bladder must be full at the time of your pelvic scan (Wha!?? Huh??!)
Okay, anyhoo. So this is interesting . . . perhaps the mammogram machine thingy has changed quite significantly since the 60 Minute doco. Perhaps you actually get a full body scan? I imagine a device kind of like a tanning bed – squeezing my whole body at once. My nose and boobs and toes all terribly squished to the top of the scanning bed while a lady yells, “you’re doing well Mrs Claycomb, just hold it there a few seconds…” All the while I have to pee like a banchee due to that litre of water I drank one hour ago!
These instructions are not helpful for my anxiety levels.
As I continue to obsess about the Big Squeeze, my biggest concern was that my lack of bodacious tatas was going to cause more pain than if I was well endowed. Yes, it’s no secret, I’m small. (I did realise a few years ago I am a ‘B’ cup but that was after many years of mistakenly squishing myself into an ‘A.’ And, if I am honest, there’s some room left over in the ‘B’ but it does make me feel better.)
Anyway, I digress. . .
“What if all they can squeeze in that machine are my nipples?” This is the question I keep pondering over and over and over . . . . . It’ll be like those ‘titty twisters’ the little boys used to give the little girls in elementary school. Remember those? Or were my school mates just extra perverted? The boys would yell ‘titty twister’ and run up to a girl and twist her little boob like a cork screw. (Yes, okay, this could be the root of so many of my mental problems . . . )
This is not an irrational fear, so don’t laugh at me as if I’m a freak. I spoke to a friend of mine who – before I could say anything about my fears – said how she too is small and never had a mammogram and was scared about the nipple pinch!
Well, several boob nightmares later, the day of the Big Squeeze came. On the morning, I looked again at the eating and drinking instructions and thought, “this can’t be right?” So, I actually picked up the phone to the medical centre. After explaining that I was sorry to bother, but wanted to confirm the instructions, the receptionist laughed, “Oh goodness, no. You got the wrong instructions – those are for hip scans! Just don’t wear deodorant and show up as you are!”
Whew, okay, this is good news. I’ll be smelly but I won’t pee my pants.
I show up for my appointment and I’m called into the office by the technician. While walking down the hall beside her she looks at me several times with a very puzzling look while checking her chart. “Oh! 1968, huh? You’re doing well – I thought you were way too young to be one of my patients.” (We’re now best friends).
I enter the room and she asks me to disrobe. I take off my shirt and bra and enter the mammogram area. After the compliment in the hallway, I’m expecting a ‘woo hoo, lookin’ good!’ but the second compliment never came. That’s okay, let’s get down to business.
Well, long story short is I do have enough boob to squeeze in that machine, my nipples weren’t bruised, it didn’t hurt one bit and I didn’t pee my pants.
My girlfriends, if you haven’t had yours yet, don’t fret. The Big Squeeze is no big deal.
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