Squished

Well, the mammogram was over pretty much before it had begun, conducted by a fiercely friendly and efficient mammographer. (Is that a word? It is now.) Appointment at 2, called in at 2.05, done by 2.10. I regretted that I forgot about the pre-emptive paracetamol. It takes quite a lot of force to render something that’s built to be bowl-shaped into a two-inch-thick flat plate. My breasts spent the rest of the afternoon going, “what was that about?”. If they’d been in a cartoon they’d have been surrounded by stars and tweeting birds until about 4 o’clock. (Although, just in case you’ve never had a mammogram: they’re passingly uncomfortable, not properly painful. A couple of paracetamol – or distraction with coffee and cake – is all you need to manage the after-effects. This is nothing to be afraid of. If you’re offered a mammogram, DON’T NOT GO.) I was reminded of how difficult it is not to be helpful. Mammograms are one of those occasions – like radiotherapy or, for the uninitiated in the Ways Of Cancer, manicures – when helping doesn’t help. So you mustn’t move your own arm, place your own hand, or put your feet anywhere other than exactly where you are told to put them. I found myself thinking back over all of the mammograms I’ve had, and couldn’t recall a single mammographer (d’you see how quickly these new words catch on?!) who didn’t look as they were on...
Source: Bah! to cancer - Category: Cancer Authors: Tags: Cancer Diagnosis mammogram Source Type: blogs