Reaching the big 4-0 didn’t phase me much. I like to think my inner child is still alive and well; I find joy in the simplest things, like a good fart joke or watching someone trip. Honestly, I’m still a bit of a goofball. But then, about a month ago, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. It arrived in the form of an envelope—an innocuous-looking piece of mail that bore the weight of my age.
Now, I haven’t feared an envelope since I was 17, anxiously awaiting college acceptance letters. But this time was different. As I tore it open, I half-expected a surprise party or a coupon for a free pizza. Instead, it felt like the universe was saying, “Hey there, you’re getting old. Time for your first mammogram!”
I mean, really? I thought women waited until they were at least 45 for that. I quickly Googled it and found that women with certain health conditions need to start earlier. Thanks, but now I’m feeling old and out of shape! For those of you already in the mammogram club, I know I sound dramatic, but you don’t know the half of it.
Back in my teenage years, I had a pretty traumatizing experience accompanying my mom to her mammogram. Honestly, I’m still baffled as to why I was there in the first place. I remember her howling in pain like a cat in a blender while I stood there, utterly horrified.
So, fast forward to my own appointment—I reluctantly scheduled it, counting the days like a prisoner on death row. The big day arrived, and I tried to reassure my breasts that it would be quick and painless. After checking in, I changed into a smock that could only be described as a fashion disaster. Picture JLo at the Grammys, but this dress ended right at my belly button.
When I finally faced that machine, I puffed out my chest and braced myself. The tech delivered a rehearsed spiel about the procedure and then it was showtime.
Now, let me set the scene: My body is a canvas, and my breasts are the abstract art. When my son was little, he loved to call my breasts “big, sloppy, and with nipples.” Accurate, but still—ouch! I confidently slapped them down on the glass, asking, “Is this how we do it?” The poor tech looked horrified and tried to gently nudge me back.
After some awkward positioning, I found myself hugging the machine while she tucked a roll of fat under the compression plate. I braced for impact, expecting the worst. But here’s the kicker: it didn’t hurt at all! My “big, sloppy” breasts flattened out nicely, and after a few x-rays, I was back in the dressing room feeling victorious.
I even paused to admire myself in the mirror, thinking, “I faced the mammogram machine and lived to tell the tale!”
If you’re curious about home insemination, check out this other blog post. There are so many ways to navigate your health, including tips from Make A Mom for boosting fertility. Also, for those interested in pregnancy resources, this site on infertility is excellent.
In summary, the mammogram experience I dreaded turned out to be a breeze. Who knew? It’s a rite of passage, and I’m still proud of my big, sloppy boobs!