Boy howdy, did I have a good time today. Should probably be illegal, and yet it’s required by the conscientious medical provider I have, to the point of getting actual mail, not only e-mail reminders. I think the last time I got real mail from my doc, it was an order referring me to an oncologist because my entire blood count was next to nothing, beginning the odyssey of leukemia survival. So, they scare the crap out of me to let me know it was time for the annual (or so they’d prefer) boob compressing. It’s an exam undoubtedly devised by a man. If my personal physician wasn’t female, I’d probably find some internet conspiracy theories to make myself feel better about blowing off said mammogram. But she is, so I went.
The first time I had a mammogram was about eight or nine years ago. I’d heard horrible things about the girls being smashed so flat, they needed spatulas to scrape them off of the table thingie when the exam was over. It had been compared to the labor pains of the woman’s northern hemisphere. I went in terrified of having my boobs stretched and pressed so harshly that I’d need to roll them up in those old pink foam rollers to get them to stay in my bra afterwards. But I went. I followed all instructions to a tee, including the ‘no deodorant’ rule. My first thought was that the technician would be wearing a gas mask, but not the case. And the exam began…
Eh. Not a big deal. Yeah, so I wouldn’t want to be holed up in those positions for any longer, but it wasn’t horrific. I’d survived, and the girls weren’t bruised or misshapen. Still faced different directions. Back to baseline. There was, however, a problem. I tend to be somewhat intolerant of nonporous surfaces, and I sweat when in contact with them. I’m also very heat intolerant, so I sweat just thinking about being slightly warmish. My boobs also inherited this condition. The first one let go of the table without much fanfare. Peeled ‘er off, and tucked ‘er back in the backwards ugly-gown. The second one? Nope. Did. Not. Want. To. Go. Home. She was flattened down, and gripping with a suction I didn’t know was possible from a boob. She put some octopi to shame that day. I had horrific images flashing in my head about finally getting her loose, only to have the recoil slap up against my forehead, refusing to move. I’d have to drive home with a boob over my left eye, hoping like crazy that I didn’t get pulled over for ANY reason. The sweat would be creating humidity in the car that would make driving hazardous. Ferns would grow. Finally, I got it loose, and hunched over as I ran into the dressing room, hoping I’d been able to dislodge it without the tech getting any glimpse of the power struggle going on from a stubborn ‘limp’ tit on her table. I wasn’t letting that boob get any ‘lift’ from air as I moved, lest she go airborne, and become too unruly to shove back into my bra. Scary having something seemingly operating independently of the rest of me 😮
I had another one the winter after I finished chemo for leukemia (APL). Once I got the OK, I had every crevice and loose bit of tissue tested for any and all types of weirdness. I wanted to know I was starting with a clean slate. And so I did- and all came out OK.
Then, came today. I had a routine oncology appointment today (is that an oxymoron? ‘Routine’ and ‘oncology’ lumped together?) , so I scheduled the mammogram for after that. That meant no deodorant for the oncology appointment (but I did mist the back of my shirt with a bit of body spray). Menopause has done some odd things with body odors. I hadn’t anticipated that when it all started, but have come to understand that I smell really, really bad if I’m not layered up with whatever non-toxic odor neutralizers I can find. I’ve been tempted to stuff dryer sheets in my bra. As it is, when I get a whiff of my pits- which are connected to a sedentary body, creating no extra odor due to healthy activity- I dash off (well, I limp, so ‘dashing’ probably isn’t accurate) to do a wipe down with witch hazel, as well as a moderate scrub with some old cheap washcloths with some texture to them. A layer of non-toxic baby powder is also a good thing. This is all when I’m at home, alone, with nobody to witness the tragedy of menopausal pits.
Anyway, I got through the oncology appointment and went to the mammogram appointment, and got in early, since it seems Tuesdays in Cancerville are fairly sedate, and I overestimated the time between appointments. But, the boob squishing department was at a lull, and I got right in over there. Did I mention that the handicapped parking is down about 16 steps? Anyway, I was escorted to the changing room, given the ugly-gown to change into, and then made my way to the exam room, where the tech had some questions. Thus far, the pit stench wasn’t horrible. Not my finest, but I didn’t think I’d kill anyone. On to the exam.
As soon as my right (the first one done) arm was raised, the green mist appeared. I was suddenly reminded of roadkill along the backroads of Texas in July, about two days after impact. Buzzards were circling, and flies could be seen in cloud form. I smelled like decomposition 😮 Oy. Those poor techs. Menopause was making me smell like a dead opossum. Or skunk. With a witness. I was horrified. I laughed it off, and the tech just said she didn’t smell anything. That must be part of the job application- must pass one of two of the following: outstanding liar or absolutely no sense of smell. The woman today seemed trustworthy enough, so my guess is that the part of her brain that interprets smell was blown out at close range in a terrible crossbow accident that left her otherwise unharmed.
I got out of there, and made it home so I could get the Brillo pads out after my pits. I got my appointment clothes off (still emitting a slight green fog), and got my natural deodorant. I thought about applying it with a spackling knife, but decided that might be a little too looney. I’m not the queen of persnickety hygiene, but I try not to be a community health hazard. At home, it’s just me and the dog most of the time (and she seems quite happy, no matter how much I’m mortified by the changes of menopause). I like it that way, with few exceptions. I just hope that when this whole process of ovarian retirement is over, I go back to being just a little whiffy when it’s hot out. NOT being so toxic that I need to wear hazmat signs when I leave home.
My condolences to the mammo-tech.