I was sure I’d be so traumatized by my mammogram last Thursday that I’d need to blog immediately afterward. You know what? It really wasn’t that bad. But I did promise I’d tell all, so I now present to you:
My Mammogram: The good, the bad, and the very, very ugly.
It didn’t really hurt. I know, I was just as surprised as you! After all I’ve heard about the misery of the mammogram, I was sure I’d be in utter agony. Obviously it’s not something I’m planning to do for fun (“What do you want to do today?” “Hey, I know–let’s go get another mammo! Whoo!”), but it’s not something I’d refer to as painful.
You know, there should be a limit to how much someone of your non-preferred gender can handle your girls. I vaguely recall being slightly taken aback the first time a lactation consultant reached out and grabbed my nipple, but this was way beyond that. On the other hand, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t want a man hauling around my bosoms in such a way, so it’s a tough call.
THE VERY, VERY UGLY:
I never, ever needed to see my boobs like that. Like, ever. It was a giant mammary pancake, and it was ATTACHED TO MY BODY.
So there you go. Get your mammograms, ladies. It’s not the funnest thing in the world, but I guarantee (although I don’t have first-hand experience, this seems like a no-brainer) it’s better than cancer. Or a pencil in the eye. And yes, that is my gauge of how miserable something is. No, I lie. My pain scale is based on unmedicated manual dilation of my cervix. But somehow a pencil in the eye seemed a little more relatable and a little less depressing.