I know three things to be true without a shadow of a doubt.
I hate all things medical, from doctors to hospitals to drugs.
I love my breasts ... even more than I love cheese.
I adore Ryan Reynolds more than any other Canadian actor. (Sorry, Ryan Gosling.)
One of these has no bearing here other than to provide some insight into my heart. The other two are why I have avoided getting a mammogram for years now.
I finally relented and showed up, ready to be uncomfortable. If I had only known just how uncomfortable things would soon get.
See, I knew I would be topless. I was good with that. I've been topless before. I knew a woman would be handling my breasts while I watched. Also not my first time.
I was nervous about the squishing aspect, which just sounds wrong, and any possible negative results. Everyone knows cancer is bad, and cleavage is good.
Yet there I stood, ready to be fondled, when the nurse lifted my right breast in her hand and bent down to examine it.
"Is this a birthmark?" she asked.
"No," I replied, also looking at the mark next to my nipple that she was running her finger over.
"Is it a bruise? Did you run into something?"
"Umm, yeah, my boyfriend's mouth."
"What?"
"It's a hickey. I am just a 47-year-old girl standing in front of a mammogram machine with a hickey on her tit."
"I don't understand."
"Well, when a boy and a girl really like each other ..." I started.
"No. No. I understand that. I just ... How? Okay. Well ... I think this might prevent accurate results. I need to get another opinion. Is that okay with you?"
"Like I have options?"
"I will be right back," she assured me as she finally dropped my breast and left the room. Also not the first time that's happened to me, but I digress.
She returns with not just one more set of eyes but three. So now four women are standing around me. They are fully clothed, and I am topless, of course. Nurse number one has returned my breast to her hand like it has always belonged there. They all take turns touching the mark nearly on my nipple and remarking to themselves about what it means.
"How did this happen again?" asks nurse number two, looking up at me for answers while stroking my areola.
"Well ... you guys are all about the self-examinations, right? I just decided to outsource that. Did we do it wrong? I mean, we watched a video tutorial and everything." This is met with four bewildered expressions. "It may have been a bit porny, now that I think about it," I continued with barely a straight face. "Maybe we found it on the wrong platform. Where do you guys post your naked videos?"
Finally — finally — these women laugh. One laughs so hard that her eyes tear up, and she starts to hiccup.
"I cannot believe you are joking right now," nurse number four remarks.
"What are my options?" I ask. "I am standing here half naked while four women fondle my breast, which my overzealous boyfriend marked up right before I had to pancake said breast to search for cells that might kill me. How is this not funny? Maybe we could parade me out to the waiting room for more opinions and really get this party going?"
Alas, this did not happen. All four nurses agreed that the bruise was light enough not to disrupt the test results. Three women left, and my original friend proceeded to take photos of my breasts that no one wants leaked onto the internet.
Two days later, my breasts were declared lovely and perfect (which I already knew), but the entire exchange still mortified me. So, of course, I have recorded it here for all posterity.
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