Can I a-cyst you?

Warning, today’s entry is about my breasts -- and my Grandma's breasts. Read at your own risk.

So, due to some unexplained and not-so-pleasant pain in my right breast, I was forced to go visit my OBGYN again this year. As if the once-a-year scrap-me-clean appointment isn’t enough.

I generally like my OBGYN, he’s a funny guy and not bad to look at. But when he starts rambling about my weight-loss (or lack thereof) since childbirth, I just want to twist his testicles until he gets just a taste of what childbirth feels like. Hasn’t happened yet, but one more time…

Anyway, the bottom line is I most likely have a cyst, but I have a mammogram on Friday -- just to be sure.

Now I have a deep and abiding fear of the mammogram machine. It’s rooted in a childhood experience which I just can’t share.

Ok, that’s bullshit, but bet I had you going for a minute there.

My grandma -- who shall remain nameless (Ruth) -- once made me go with her to mammogram appointment. Unfortunately, I had to go into the inner sanctum of the “machine,” as I was a young child and could not be left to my own devices in the waiting room. Whatever.

What I remember most vividly is how the nurse shoved her breast into the machine like she was stuffing a pillow case. I’ve never seen anything like it. And then that steal machine noise that clamped said breast into a vice-like grip. And I remember how my grandma kinda leaned forward grabbed the machine like she needed to pull the delicate, although droopy, gem from the jaws of death!

Rinse and repeat on the second breast.

I was appalled and so thankful for my nubbins.

Fast forward 20-some years, and it’s my nubbins in the limelight! I will most likely need a valium before I go. And not just for the breast inquisition, but for that fucking paper dress too.