Mammogram Woes

WARNING:  I just had my yearly mammogram this week, and I have a few things to say about it. (If a man can exit a bathroom and feel the liberty to brag about a job well done, I can complain just a little about the mammogram machine to you mammogram people.) My observations (i.e. complaints) are as follows:

1. I can literally fit 3 people my size into the thin top they give me wear into the x-ray room. As if not already self-conscious about being naked under there and facing torture, must I feel like I’m six-years-old, and I’m playing dress-up? Is it really that hard to offer a few different sizes? Or is this experience meant to double as a self-image test?
2. I’m cold. Turn up the heat, people. We’re naked in there.
3. The lights are on. Seriously, you can’t figure out a way to dim the lights to protect my dignity? Just give the technician a flashlight or lead me to the x-ray machine with a rope or runway lights. Or an M&M trail. That would be more respectful and would take the edge off the experience.
4. It hurts. You’re putting 22.9 pounds of pressure on the tenderest part of my body (I checked the gauge while I was holding on for dear life). This machine must have been invented by a man. Hmmm. I’m thinking of a machine idea that could give men an equal experience …
5. I’m told to hold my breath the whole time. That’s not too hard–they’ve just squeezed the breath right out of me. The difficult part is drawing a second breath so I don’t pass out and end up dangling from the machine with only my breast to keep me attached to it.

I go home and find out later. I can’t get out of that place fast enough. Delayed results, I must say, is a big improvement for me, so I give them kudos for that. And my mammogram appointments used to take about 2 or more hours of my life every year; now I am in and out in 30 minutes.So my complaints pale in comparison to the blessing of modern technology. I am thankful for the mammogram machine and for health insurance and for my health.  I am fortunate.

Everything good comes with a cost–a little soreness. A little pain. But well worth it.

Thank you, modern machine of female torture.