Mammogram

My GYN, besides sounding like she has a nasal attack 24/7, is also a fairly conservative doc. And so all post-35-year-old patients are sent off for a routine Mammogram.

So today was my day.

All I am going to say is that apparently I have lots of muscle in mine -- which is good for a variety of, ahem, uplifting reasons. But it also lends itself to what I can only assume is what it will feel like if my breasts ever get caught in the subway doors. By a sadistic train operator.

Because of their, uh, density, I had to be "filmed" 7 times. Four apparently is normal. As I stood, naked from the waist up, allowing a stranger to handle my breasts like raw chicken slabs, and then squeezing them between two glass panes, I just kept trying to focus on my Rabbit and her sweet face as the plates attempted to Paillard me.

The tech grew concerned and mused that my pain threshold must be low. Whatever. Did I mention you're not allowed to breathe while the machine shoots away? While the plates squeeze you like some robotic S&M master?

It didn't hurt as bad as the morning after my C-Section. And it hurt worse than the spinal they gave me before. But then I got my gorgeous Rabbit from that. Luckily everything came back with a big fat "NORMAL."

But they're not kidding when they talk about the pain of growing old.