The twins, the ladies, the girls, the sisters, the Himalayas: Whatever you call them, you want to keep them as safe as possible.
I went for a mammogram on Wednesday morning.
First thing I did was sit down with the intake person. I had to fill out some forms, answer a few questions. You’ve been there. You know about the paperwork.
In her office, above her computer, was the picture of a little tow-headed boy eating a great big slice of watermelon. What a cutie.
“My co-worker’s son,” she said. She took a copy of my insurance card and asked me to fill out one more sheet.
There were two questions on it. I don’t remember the first one, but the second almost made me cry.
It said: Because violence in the home is a serious health risk, we ask everyone: Do you have any concerns about your own personal safety?
All you had to do was check the box right next to that question and somebody would know. I wish it had been there when I was with Quinton–back in the black and blue years. I couldn’t tell anyone what was going on then, but I think I might’ve been able to check that box.
Well, when I got that done, a tech called my name and I followed her from the waiting room to this tiny, pink floral-curtained changing closet.
“Take everything off above the waist,” she said, smiling as if she and I were old friends. She handed me a blue gown. “And, put this on so it opens down the front.”
She walked away to peek at my file while I changed.
I closed the curtain, stripped to the waist, put on the gown, and was seated in a comfortable chair when she returned just moments later.
People are always making jokes so I was sort of nervous.
The tech applied the pressure a little at a time. As she increased it, she’d ask, “Are you doing okay?” She told me she would stop if it was too much.
But I was fine.
To tell you the truth, I never felt slammed between elevator doors and it certainly wasn’t like an eighteen wheeler rolled over my breast. It didn’t hurt.
There was one thing, though. I just kept thinking, “I hope there’s not a fire, I hope there’s not a fire,” ’cause I was wedged in there pretty good. But as soon as the tech pressed a button, the machine released and my breast sprung right back into shape.
Mammograms are painless and they help keep the sisters safe.
And speaking of safe, if your doctor has added a domestic violence question to their paperwork, thank them. If they haven’t, ask them to consider it. That will save some sisters too.
Talk to you soon,