by Mel (Thu Jan 14, 2010)
Don't have a mother
who dies shockingly young from breast cancer. The genetic counsellors will get hold of you and you'll have to start
having mammograms at 35.
Do buy fabulous
new underwear, have a wax and exfoliate before your mammogram. It might be a sexy
male nurse who operates the machine and anyway, if the Grim Reaper has his
scythe poised, best to go out looking good.
Don't look around
the waiting room mulling over half-remembered breast cancer statistics. ‘What is it again, 1 in 10? 1, 2, 3,....8, 9, 10, shit! It's me! I'm number 10!'
Do load a perky,
funny comedy show onto your iPod to listen to in the waiting room. For a minute
or two you might forget where you are and what you're waiting for.
Don't yelp
in alarm when your name is called. It's really embarrassing.
Do have a rough
idea of funeral requirements, and prepare some tear-jerking playlists and
eulogies in case you are number 10 (see above). Things to consider might be:
cremation vs burial, dress theme (fancy dress might be fun), and for the wake;
sit down meal or light finger food?
Don't have
massive jabonga-like breasts. There's too much for the machine to go at, and it's
really going to hurt.
Do have small,
shrivelled droopy tits that would not look out of place in a tribal village. They
offer much less resistance (see above).
Don't forget that
compressing your breasts could result in residual breast milk leaking out. Consider
expressing milk before you go; the Yummy Mummy look is so last decade.
Do cross fingers,
toes and legs for luck. (Your eyes will cross involuntarily as the pain hits.) If
you believe in a higher being, start praying now.
Don't squeal like
a piglet as your tender breast tissue is squeezed remorselessly between two
cold, hard metal plates.
Do keep your pelvic
floor tightly squeezed when told the
mammogram is clear; wetting yourself in relief is not dignified. Try not to jibber effusive thanks to the
machine operator or laugh hysterically. Jokes about being disappointed because you wanted to lose weight and
have always thought being bald might suit you, are not appropriate at this
point.
Don't get complacent;
the ultrasound is still to come.
Do allow yourself
to cry like a girl when the
ultrasound highlights an anomaly in your left breast. You are only human after
all.
Don't switch off
and start planning your funeral immediately. Listen when they say it looks
benign but they have to investigate anyway. Trust them to know their fibroadenomas
from their ductal carcinomas.
Do refrain from
constricting the airways of the (snotty) secretary when she tells you there are
no biopsy appointments for another 10 days.
Don't hold back. For
the next 10 days indulge in alcohol, chocolate, funeral fantasies and creative
obituary-writing exercises.
Do try to remain
calm before they start the biopsy. Although
crying with big, juddering sobs can be quite cathartic; so blub away if you
need to.
Don't watch as
the nurse gets a freakishly long needle out of its wrapper. Otherwise, you will
feel very queasy.
Do look fixedly
at the ceiling during the biopsy and avoid looking at the ultrasound screen. Otherwise
you will see the freakishly long needle sliding into your tender breast tissue.
Bad image.
Don't forget to
kiss everyone in sight when the results come back clear.
Do remember to
live life to the full, just in case you're not so lucky next time.
Don't you just
love having boobs?
