Yesterday, at the crack of dawn, I went to the hospital for my annual mammogram. I went on a mostly-empty stomach which would prove fortuitous, given the massive desire to barf that I would experience once I felt a pinching in my right armpit as my right boob was squashed between the plexiglass plates of the mammography machine.
For those of you who don't have boobs, here is a picture for reference:
I've been getting an annual mammogram since I was in my early forties so I am used to the pressure on my fun bags during the procedure. I am not, however, used to having my armpit join in the taffy pull. The aggressive pinching must have caught a nerve that is attached directly to my stomach because, Lord, did I have to fight the urge to projectile vomit my coffee all over my naked upper body, the Jaws of Death within I was being devoured, and the poor radiology technician who was just trying to get every single inch of my boob flesh wrestled into the picture frame so she wouldn't have to make me do it all over again.
I was traumatized.
On the bright side, my doctor's office called me before the day was out to let me know that, while I have dense breast tissue (no surprise, there), there were no calcifications or other causes for concern and I am good to go for another year.
And, you know, I didn't puke.
All is well!
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