Mammogram diaries: Can I get this half hour back?

Today is a day of mixed emotions.

I'm still basking in the glow of becoming mother of the bride. Marissa and Jeff came over yesterday and we served them a little bottle of champagne and a mess of ribs, chicken, corn and roast potatoes.

Not exactly on my meal plan, but what the hoo? A person's daughter doesn't get engaged everyday.

Today will not be as glamorous. Today, I am going for a mammogram and I am not looking forward to it. It's not that I'm scared. Mammograms are pretty harmless as a procedure. No one is poking up your ass or down your throat. Nobody is making you quaff chalk-like drinks that give you a flaming asshole afterwards. It's usually just you and a nice, efficient French lady with the radiologist hiding in the back like a director on a porn flick.

It's just that this is bound to be painful.

I have roughly ten pounds of boob weight which will be squished between cold slabs for about a half an hour. The boob work isn't that bad unless you've got bumpy boobies, which I do not. It's the up in the air arm action that's going to kill me. I have persistant shoulder blade pain, probably from all those years of playing tennis and it's aggravated at the moment. Wasn't when I booked the mammogram, but it's flared up in recent days and it hurts like the bejesus. So the idea of holding my arms up for a half hour makes me sick to my stomach.

I can't get that half hour back.

Oh well. All for the cause.

I'm finally getting real about what's going on in this well worn body of mine. Maybe it will save me twenty or thirty years if there's something I don't know about going on between the shrivelled milk ducts and the woody glands.

Have to be in good shape for a wedding two years hence, right?

Have to be there for a wedding two years hence. There are no other options.

If I'm dead from breast cancer, Marissa will kill me.

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