Mammoslams and Density Gams

Dear Esteemed Radiologists,

I want to thank you sincerely for the fine work you perform on women everyday. Your high-tech detection devices and keen "hey-what's-that?" skillz are invaluable. When I was in there getting my mammogram -- one of my most anticipated pasttimes cuz Radiology is now like a destination -- I noticed you did away with the frumpy, stiff dressing gowns of my great great grandmother's generation and instead opted for the more modern "mini cape" and its single set of neck snaps.

I have to say that the mini cape makes me feel more like a crusader in need of someone to rescue but with the constant threat of my boobs showing the instant there is a well-aimed burst of air conditioning. One good gust and weeeee! Suddenly you're Marilyn Monroe from your barenaked chest to your clavicle. I realize this apparel allows easier access to the boobery as I turn left, lift and plant, watch the vice grips flatten my mams into doughy sugar cookies, grimace and hold my breath (snap the fucking image already), shed tears and cry out for my mama. Or a double-barrel shotgun. So I don't want to get all up in the tech's grille about that. She's just doing her job, right?

But what I really take issue with are the paper pants. Who the hell's idea was that? I want you to know that I came into the place at 110 pounds. As instructed, I removed my slacks and slid into the industrial blue paper pants for my trip to the bone density table and gained an instant 300 pounds. See for yourself.
I almost passed out. No wonder there are no mirrors in the changing rooms.

But seriously, there's no way that tech could have known if I had somebody else in there with me, a la He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (pre-corporeal Lord Voldemort), or not. What if that wasn't my real hip you scanned, Missy? What then? And what's wrong with designer paperpants? I have a size, people. I see it in every department store, and it belongs to me. It completes me. This one size fits all mentality, oh revered body scanners, is a load of crap. And, really, how much did this atrocity cost my medical provider?

So thanks ever so much for that cheap shot to my ego. I went home and promptly swallowed a gallon of Rocky Road, a dozen Little Debbies (sorry, Michel, your package will be late), and one gigantor Cinnabon slathered with a pound of real butter and drizzled caramel because I figured I was a lost cause anyway. Thence was supplanted a ton of freakish and unholy Catholic guilt.

And even though you stiffed me out of my rubber-soled, one-size-fits-all tube socks, and you've made me a bigger person, I'll be back in two years. I hope you're happy.

Yours in diagnostics,
Fragrant Liar
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