It’s mammography time again, oh joy…
Just a quickie today as it’s mammography day.
I just love this annual ritual. I don’t know which is worst: the 20-minute drive to the clinic, trying to stop my stomach from rumbling in the waiting room or waiting for the bloody results (which, thanks heavens, are instant). I know they’re going to be fine, but you don’t know till you know, do you?
It’s a year since my last mammo, which is a bit of a relief. For several years I had to go every six months, because I have fibrocystic breast disease and they like to keep an eye on it. However, since it has never changed since the first time they found it, last time they seemed content to leave well enough alone.
It doesn’t MEAN anything, they tell me. My family has a history of benign breast tumours anyway, so I didn’t panic when I first found the lump. It’s about the size of a marble. The x-rays show my poor boobies are chock full of them – basically air pockets – and I usually have an echography as well as mammography, as this shows the cysts up better.
It hurts though, so I’m not looking forward to that, apart from that niggling fear that I can’t quite dispel. Not so much the big booby-squashing machine, which I’m quite fascinated by (I only take up a quarter of the screen so I shudder to think how humungous some boobies must me), but the echography, which usually consists of some smiling medic attempting to squash my lumpy rock-like knockers back through my rib cage. Forewarned is forearmed, however, and I shall be liberally smearing myself with arnica cream this time.
Oh la. Just another one of those things that we women must endure to stay healthy. At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that if they DO find anything, they should catch it early. And it gives me, once again, cause to rejoice that I live in France, where mammographies are standard from the age of 40, rather than in the UK with what remains of a once-fine health service.