Wham, Bam, Thank You Mammogram

I used to hate them. The two little nubs barely distorted the shape of my t-shirt in gym class, but they destroyed my posture throughout middle school. The boobies rooted themselves to my humiliation, adjusting my fashion sense toward layers and alienating all swimsuits. Hiding the baby turnips ruled my wardrobe.

They grew on me, however, and so sprouted a beautiful friendship. Sweaters that used to hang started to hug. The awkward bumps took a curve. My body didn’t seem to hate me anymore. My spuds became my buds.

The relationship wasn’t perfect. We endured pain, growth and embarrassing lactation through pregnancies and beyond as payment for the incomparable bonds we enjoyed in nursing our babies. A sour nightgown or two was worth that though.

The weight that joined us over the years proves more difficult to overlook. Their bra demands went from cute and sexy to industrial strength support. I’ve been “D” listed. Straps are the enemy. Underwires strike with vengeful jabs.

I’m ashamed to admit, there have been times when I dared to wish away my breasts. In fleeting moments, I have entertained the idea of a bounce free existence. Then I felt a lump. I made a phone call and the test was ordered.

I’ve had these tests before, but it’s different when you’re not just there for a routine check. Now, with the gown open in the front, my emotions are exposed. As I sit in the waiting room, I set aside the worst case scenario and imagine actually living without my breasts. I wonder if my husband will look at me like one of the guys, if he’ll still hold me close when we dance.

I think of my children. For years, their headaches and heartbreaks have landed in my maternal comfort zone. Each of them has rested a head on my chest more times than I could say. Worried or wearied, there have been times when a cuddle is the best I have to offer.

I remember being a new mother, again and again and again. Every time felt as special as the last. Sweet drops of memory fall from my eyes.

I hear my name. A technician leads me to his lair. The room is cold. I want to turn and run to a land where boobies run free. The machine scowls at me. I am at its mercy. I stand before the beast, humbled in its grip. My trembling doesn’t matter. Twist, lift, breathe, wait. My buds can’t take anymore. One more squeeze and it’s over. The beast is satisfied.

I return to the waiting room. They’re sorry. I’m sorry. I agree to forget the time a wire poked through my blouse at a job interview. They promise not to float to the top next time we’re in the hot tub. We decide to go to Victoria Secret’s on the way home. We deserve something pretty. A man comes in to talk to me.

“Mrs. Hansen, I’ve looked at your mammogram and found nothing.”
“I beg your pardon?” I couldn’t help rolling my shoulders back in pronouncement of my dear friends.
“Everything looks normal. You can get dressed.”

Alleluia.