So then…she politely avoids eye contact as she grabs my left breast and plops it on the plate. She yanks my left arm almost out of its socket and drapes it up, then angles it awkwardly around the giant metal mammogram machine so that she can take a picture.
(I imagine that this is what prom pictures will look like in the future – topless girls with their arms around their transformers-robot dates.)
The technician rotates the plate a bit, then she flattens my cantaloupe to a crepe.
“Don’t breathe,” she instructs, then steps behind the shield to press the xray button.
I hear the whir of the xray picture, then she says, “Oh!” and darts from the room!
What does she mean: ‘Oh?’
Was she talking about my xray?
Was that a dismayed ‘Oh’ like ‘Oh, this is dreadful, we have to chop this puppy off!’
Or was it more of a surprised ‘Oh’ like ‘Oh, how odd – how did that diamond ring get in that boob?’
However, I imagine if I had accidentally swallowed a diamond ring, it would probably end up in my stomach, and not my left breast. But who knows? Stranger things have happened.
How would they get it out, I wonder? What if they damaged the breast in the process? Well, I suppose I could just sell the diamond ring to buy a new breast. A perky one. But then I’d have to get the other one to match. It’s too awkward to have one perky and the other one swinging.
It’s at this time I wonder if it’s ok for me to breathe again.
I look toward the door which has a little window, but I can’t see anything.
The technician has still not returned.
I reach my free hand up to see if I can somehow release the lever that has my boobie in its excruciatingly painful grip – but no luck.
Where the hell did she go?
I wait and wait and wait. And wait some more.
Finally she returns. I ask, “What happened!?”
She replies nonchalantly — and with a dismissive wave toward the hall – “Oh, there was just a small fire out there.” And then she goes about swapping my left boob for the right boob in her torture chamber.
There was just a small WHAT out there? A fire?
And she left me in here, literally trapped in this machine? I’m not familiar with emergency medical procedure, but I’m pretty sure “In case of fire, release boobies” has got to be near the top of the list!
What if the small fire had turned into a BIG fire and she had to evacuate? What about half-naked me, with my breast in a vise? If I couldn’t release the lever, would I have to flee and leave my breast behind? How could I? I’ve grown attached to that breast. AND it might have a diamond ring inside it, for Pete’s sake!
I am working myself up into quite a state until I realize that if the fire had become larger, then big strapping rugged firefighters would have shown up to save the day. And being caught as a half-naked damsel in distress would be a memorable way to meet a potential date.
I can just hear him telling our grandkids how we met: “Fire and smoke everywhere – but your brave topless Grammy was grinning from ear to ear as we rescued her — cantaloupe and crepe and all.”
– Darcy Perdu
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(Any topless stories to share? Mammograms, firefighters, or odd behavior from medical staff? Share it in the Comments Section!)
And P.S. – if you haven’t had your annual mammogram yet, book your appointment today! Or contact this guy: