Doomsday is in my not too distant future. It is the day that I will go kicking, screaming, and snarling to that innocent looking building with pink walls, pink chairs, and pink ribbons to be subjected to the pain and humiliation of another mammogram. It appears that the temporary restraining order has expired, and I will once again be allowed to breach the 500 feet area surrounding the health center. In spite of regurgitating the bilious memory of that first mammogram, I am making that call again. Why? Because it might save my miserable life. And despite what I say, so should you.
I wrote an article a while ago about my first mammogram called, appropriately enough, “The Mammogram”, which you might enjoy reading if you’re into pain, foul language, and porn. I reread it because for some reason Yahoo contacted me to say they were posting it somewhere in Yahooland. I can’t figure that out, for the life of me, as it is not an “inspiring” read, nor will it send women running to get a mammogram in fervent hope of reliving my experience. I must admit it was composed during my recovery period, after I had consumed half of a bottle of Dr. Mc Gillicuddy, which might explain the foul language. On the upside, maybe a repost will push “The Mammogram” into double digits.
In spite of my selfish anticipation of material gain, I am offering the article again to those of you who thrive on conquering the aftermath of difficult and humiliating experiences by seeking out those who have been through it. Misery loves company and all that crap.
So my boobied friends, sit back, relax, push your humor “on” button, and read “The Mammogram” here. I doubt the tales you may have heard of mammomooshing can top this (with the exception of the power outage one).