Copyright 1994(c)
                                                                 

      ONE MAMMOGRAM, PLEASE -- WELL DONE; HOLD THE ONIONS.
                         By Del Freeman

     There are a number of things that, without ever having 
entertained even fleeting thoughts of them, I know I do not want.
In fact, I don't even know how long the list is, because I'm still
making it. For instance, I do not want okra and anything. I do not
want invasive surgery that closes with the surgeon murmuring "Uh,
oh!" I do not want five of six winning lottery numbers; any pet
that rapidly gains an uncommon amount of weight in the midriff
area; or candy, of any type or consistency, that contains the word
'sour' in its description. 'Sour' candy, for my money, is an
oxymoron tantamount to 'honest' lawyer.  
     And now that I am almost half a century old, and have finally
come to terms with the awful truth that there is no Santa Claus,
tooth fairy or Easter bunny, I do not want any more emotional 
masturbation by mail from Ed McMahon and his sidekick, Mr. Clark.
My loving husband, David, says I am rigid, and perhaps he is right.
I do not seem to respond well to new stimuli, and had sort of hoped
to avoid any in future. Alas, that was not to be. 
     Yesterday, I experienced a new sensation: mammography. For 
those of you who have never had this experience, let me forewarn
you that the age-old expression "putting one's tit in a wringer,"
pales by comparison. I always thought that was a bit crude, but
someone, somewhere, (no doubt male), has apparently been moved to
investigate it sufficiently to develop a machine to duplicate the
imagined sensation. This is proof positive that the Marquis de Sade
lives on. 
     ["Have you ever had a mammogram?" asked my doctor. 
     "No," said I, innocently. 
     "Would you like one?" 
     "Sure, why not?" said I.] 
     That, people, is what is known as an ill-informed response.
Would that she had merely asked me if I'd like a crack across the
nose with a brick. I'd have known the answer to that one.
Correctly, this exchange should go: 
     ["Can you say mammogram, Mrs. Whomever?," from the male 
doctor. 
     "Can you say Bobbitt, doc?," from Mrs. Whomever.] 
     I was, at best, a trying patient. When finally I left the 
hospital, the nurses were taking up a collection to send me to the
hospital down the road for my next mammogram. The radiologist 
kicked in $20 without even being asked. I think he was a sore 
loser. I mean, he didn't have to get all huffy just because I said
I wanted him to slap his Mr. Johnson up there and let me tighten
the screws on it. 
     ["I don't need that," he pointed out, logically. 
     "I know," I agreed. "I just want you to have it."] 
     I don't know what I thought a mammogram was, but I'm sure I
envisioned it as something very similar to an x-ray, and equally
non-intrusive. What it turns out to be is a Chinese torture device
that works like an electronic vise grip of mammoth dimension. One
is sidled up to it with one's ta-ta strategically positioned in 
between two level surfaces, which are then manipulated by foot 
pedal closer together until one's badge of womanhood is 
inextricably grasped within the two surfaces, flattened like a 
pancake. I expect the hospital must spend a lot of time on a daily
basis turning away people with nose rings, dressed in whips and
leather, queuing up to the machine and shouting "Me, first!" 
     For someone like me, who has ever suffered from fibrocystic
breast disease, (i.e., these babies hurt if you look at them), it
was a real treat. My protests would have rung no louder if they'd
done an emergency splenectomy with a dull toothbrush, sans
medication. Finally, the technician called in reinforcements. Of
course, since I enjoyed it so much we got to do more pictures than
the average patient. We took front shots; we took side shots, and
they went away to be read. Then we took more side shots and they
went away to be read. Then we took yet more side shots which went
away to be read. I was beginning to feel like Christie Brinkley on
a bad hair day. 
     The moral of the story is that we found two little somethings
which the radiologist doctor "thought" were harmless little
whatchanames. In order to ascertain more about them, we did a
sonogram. That's the thing where they take this jelly out of the
deep freezer, apply it to a probe, and run the probe all over one's
ta-ta. I am persuaded that all of medicine is merely a prelude to
full-blown massochism. 
     ["Excuse me... I just need a touch more goop."
     Back to the deep freezer.
     "Oh? You like this? Well, let's just stick this little thing
with a metal clip on the very tip of your ... ah... yes, both of
them. Then we'll all take turns seeing if we can hit the bull's eye
with a slingshot and steel rivets at 30 paces."] 
     Three hours later, the radiologist still "thought" these were
harmless little whatchanames. Furthermore, he thought they were
non-aggressive little whatchanames. I interpreted that to mean that
even if I have cancer, at least it's not P.O'd about anything. 
     My doctor, the one who got me into this mess with that
innocuous little question: 'Would you like a mammogram?' is a
female. I have no doubt she is going to advise me to take three
fingers and play with myself on an on-going basis henceforward. I,
hysteric that I am, will be totally useless at this since I can
already feel an increased size and thickness in this particular
ta-ta just since yesterday. By Tuesday, I expect the little
whatchanames to be, like killer tomatoes, the size of Cleveland. 
     The radiologist wants to "follow" these whatchanames. That
means six months from now I get to go back and do this 
mammogram thing again. Six months or Tuesday, whichever comes 
first.  
     I have only one request, which I think is eminently 
reasonable. The radiologist doesn't seem to agree, so I think it
should be put to a vote, and here goes... 
     Next time, while they manipulate my ta-ta down to the
thickness of a well-cooked grilled cheese sandwich, I want to just
hold the doc's Mr. Happy in my hand. It will give me courage and
calm my fears. Besides, I understood everything they said about the
necessity of this procedure and how it wasn't designed to be 
painful but to be medically beneficial. I will go quietly into that
good night, ... chin high and unafraid, if I can just lightly hold
the doc's Mr. Happy. I know we can reach some amicable agreement
about this. 
     As I cradle the doc's Mr. Happy in open palm, just before they
tighten the vise grip, I shall turn to him and smile. 
     "We're not gonna' hurt each other, are we doc?" I shall ask
sweetly.  
     I am willing to arm myself, for purposes of persuasion.
                              -30- 




