For women of a certain age, it’s possible to forget you own boobs. There’s the odd reminder of course, usually at birthdays and Christmas, when you’re squeezing into an old party frock and the inevitable droop leaves you looking like Santa. (Top tip: ditch the red velvet.) Or there’s the unexpected dalliance at work, when you’re reaching across the desk and one of them types a mysterious message. But otherwise, were a lot less … in touch.
So it’s entirely unusual for me to have spent the past four weeks fixated on boobs, or more specifically the state of my own. But after attending a breast cancer awareness webinar, I arrived home to my first invitation for a mammogram. Coincidence? Or a sign to be worried.
That evening, I carried out the self-exam as instructed on the webinar, which helped to relax me a little. Until I re-read the letter and discovered my mammogram would take place in Morrisons car park! Not by that heavy handed chap off fruit and veg, surely!?!
The trouble with relying on Mother Nature for messaging is that she tends to be scant on details. As a rule I prefer the ignorant bliss. I’ve got friends who’s healthcare regimes – counting calories and footsteps, tracking heartrate and blood pressure – cause them no end of concern. But as I pulled into Morrisons car park, I couldn’t help but feel that I should have been better prepared.
Swept along among the shoppers, I was certainly ‘alone in a crowd.’ With everyone there but me at the manhandling end of examining a pair for ripeness. I don’t think we’re ever as truly alone as we are when confronting a medical procedure, or a life-changing diagnosis. I cut a forlorn looking figure as I as stepped away from the crowd, in search of my daunting destination.
The prefab itself looked like an upmarket lodge I once stayed in at Yarmouth. But after climbing the steps to the door, it was a different holiday that sprang to mind. A hotel break in London. And my Uncle Peter, ironing his trousers – whilst wearing them – by dangling his lower limbs into a trouser press. I know I’ve alluded to droopage, but I really couldn’t hope to fill a trouser press. We’re talking a pair of sizeable oranges here – there’s no way – not even squeezed flat. At the top of those steps I berated myself for finding myself here again, walking headfirst into the unknown. Fortunately, that turned out to be into the capable hands of Dee, a brilliant mammographer.
To my utter surprise, the reception area made that lodge at Yarmouth look like a shack. It was polished, sleek and clinical. But then I followed Dee into a room that totally blew my mind, built entirely around a machine that wouldn’t look out of place on the Starship Enterprise. As I took in my futuristic surroundings, Dee asked if I’d noticed anything unusual. By which she meant unusual with me. I had the sense to keep quiet about the typing. But I did confess that since the menopause, I wasn’t entirely sure that the objects of today’s attention were even plumbed in. It was at that point I learned that Dee, was as wise as her hands were warm…
‘Well, just because they’re not plumbed in, doesn’t mean they won’t corrode,’ she said.
Undressed, I stood in front of the X-ray machine, and Dee, now behind me, pressed her hands gently down on my shoulders. A gesture she repeated throughout the procedure as if to say, ‘don’t worry, you’re in good care.’ And after explaining to me exactly what would happen, together we found our way. Dee carefully placing one sizeable orange at a time, on top of a perspex plate. Then lowering an identical plate to apply compression until I said ‘ahaaaahhh’, at which point she’d pause, to ask if I was O.K. (Top tip: Answering ‘yes’ to this question gives mammographers the green light to transform all fruits into fried eggs.) At a compromised position of pinch, Dee then stepped away to capture an Xray image. Four shots in total, two straight on and two side angles and that was it – all over and done with. Only I’d have to wait until three long weeks after the fumble, to hope to hear those three little words.
I received those words today; ‘normal no action’ and they had the desired euphoric effect.
Which took me right back to the top of those steps, when I re-entered the crowd after my appointment. Braless, as my goods didn’t quite fit their packaging. And with Dee’s words ringing in my ears, that only a third of women take up this potentially lifesaving screening. Could this be because the screening begins at a time in our lives when we’re so out of touch with ourselves?
I’d never before felt so perfectly equipped to deliver stripped-back, budget-friendly health advice to hundreds of fruit laden strangers. For top tips:
‘‘DON’T FORGET YOUR WONKY PAIRS!’’
And I really regret not doing so. So I’m doing it now. As well as committing to giving myself a much-needed M.O.T. Next stop, the dentist. A routine appointment so I’ll spare you the type up. But I really can’t promise anything.
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