When I walked into the clinic, I chummed it up with the front deskers. I saw them last week for my kidney x-ray, and Oldest Son was in recently for a chest x-ray. We’re on a first-name basis now.
“Here I am again!” I said to Shanyce.
“Don’t worry; you’ve got Carol. She’s great!” I wasn’t worried; I do Brazilian Jiu Jitsu—I’m used to having my personal space invaded. Plus after giving birth to Oldest Son in front of ten doctors and two nurses I’d never seen before (high risk babies in teaching hospitals bring them out of the woodwork, and I was in no shape to complain), I’m not really the shy type. However, it’s still nice to get the “experienced” tech.
Carol called me in. She was a look-alike down to the jewelry for Oldest Son’s third-grade teacher. There’s a lot of touching in a mammo, and I imagine many people are disconcerted by it. I can tell because Carol starts explaining everything she’s going to do as she does it. “You don’t have to say all that,” I say, but she continues and I realize that maybe it helps her.
Carol is good and I am compliant. It only takes a few snapshots to get all the pictures she needs. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable,” she says, but I don’t, because it’s really not that bad.
“Wow! That was like, twenty pounds of pressure!” Carol marvels after our last picture, in awe of the force my boob is taking. My thoughts go straight to Monday night, and the side control my 230-pound friend had on me. Ha! Twenty pounds! I thought to myself. She has no idea!