30 Days of Writing - Pressure

Guys, you may turn your heads and cough if you don't care to read about lady things - boobs to be precise.

It is that time of year again. The time when the hospital sends a cute little pink letter to me to remind me to come and have a mammogram. (Now, I know that mammograms save lives and am all over the prevention of cancer, this is supposed to be a tongue in cheek story. So comment away if I offend, but you were warned.)

I have suffered at the hands of sadistic radiology machines with this exam for the past 20 or so years. I had to start this process early after discovering a rogue lump one day way back then. Since then it has been a yearly experience highlighted on occasion by the rude technician or the questionable physician reading.

This year I arrived at the usual office, registered, and waited calmly for what has generally been an uncomfortable yet painless procedure. No. Big. Deal.

A kind staff member called me back to the dressing room where I stripped off my top and bra and put on a gown that could have doubled as a circus tent. After wrapping myself up like a swaddled baby, I was called into the exam room for my imaging.

After a round of military type inquisition questioning, I was instructed to approach "the machine." The technician gave her orders and after losing the gown and correcting my issues with which "right" side of my body she required where, I was ready for my photo shoot. I refer to this positioning procedure as "the dance of the boobs." I may not be a big person, but my boobs went into overdrive as I developed. This makes squashing one to the flatness of a pancake a herculean effort. So there I was, I had one arm grasping the machine handle as if I were holding on for dear life. The other arm was kept busy holding my other boob out of the way of the machine so that it didn't get squished as collateral damage. She had me with my face pressed up against the protective shield. I'm not sure why they need a sneeze guard on the machine - it is not like I was bellying up to a salad bar. With my head and arms busy, she adjusted the rest of my body as if I were posing for a Michelangelo or better yet a Dali sculpture. My right hip was jutting out. My back was bent and then she thoughtfully popped me in the knees so that they were bent as well. I complied although I really wanted to stand on tip-toe to attempt to keep my breast from being torn completely from my torso.

Just when I thought that the machine had reached maximum pressure, she adjusted it to squish even harder bringing a wave of pain throughout my body. I had never had an exam that really hurt until this one. And we got to do the boob tango six, count them, six times. I watched each time as the pressure increased and the digital readout on the machine climbed. They don't have to tell me to hold my breath or not to move as both are physical impossibilities. I held back my desires to yell at her to hurry in her slow walks between me and her lead lined protected bunker.

It was over in a matter of minutes and when the machine released its hold for the last time, I finally took a deep breath. I'm not sure what was different with this exam and why the pressure was so intense. I'm pretty sure that there must be a mathematical relationship between those little digital pressure numbers and the gravitational pull on my boobs. I guess as gravity has increased (right?) and parts of me are falling (due to the increase in gravity, right?) there has to be an equal and opposite reaction somewhere and I'm certainly not getting any taller.

----------------------------------------------

This 30 Days of Writing Challenge is brought to you courtesy of Nicky and Mike. They managed to convince a bunch of us to play along. If you want to read more cheesy posts, check out the ramblings of the crazy gang listed on the Linky thing at the latest post at We Work for Cheese.