Yesterday’s mammogram went as well as one might expect; clothing was shed, the girlie bits were dutifully delivered into the hands of a total stranger while eyes were averted (mine, obviously the technician was required to keep her eyes on the prize) and some pretty pictures were taken.
While the technician was waiting for the machine to develop the films enough to ascertain that the scans were clear, we made small talk about such fascinating topics as the weather (wow, its cold out!), the new radiology technology, current events and, the apparent denseness of my breasts which; is when I heard the distinct sound of a needle scratching across a record.
I have had numerous breast exams in my mumble, mumble, twenty-nine years on this planet, mumble, mumble and not once have I been accused of having dense breast tissue. You can rest assured that I made a point of telling the technician exactly that.
And, she back-pedaled pretty quickly, assuring me that the tissue wasn’t like, obnoxiously dense just, you know, remarkably so which, not much better technician-person!
She then informed me that, while my tissue is dense, it also has a really nice consistency; think perfect mashed potatoes, dense with nary a hint of lumps.
I know, right?
The comparison was…sort of weird. And, I left the hospital with a picture in my mind’s eye; my breasts on a platter, two nice white mounds with a pat of slowly melting butter running between my cleavage. Why, just add a smidgen of gravy and my boobs would be totally delectable.
And, because I’m a sweetheart who is in no way, shape or form jealous of what I’m certain are your perfectly non-dense breasts; I’m going to leave you with that image, too.
You are welcome.