I recall my first mammogram. Not fondly. The amount of pain shocked me. So did the doctor.
This was pre-Women’s Imaging Center, when I was living in Chicago. Pre-sister’s cancer diagnosis, too. My doctor was a solo practitioner radiologist so everybody stepped into her office to get their results.
After a poker-faced review of my images right in front of me, the doctor slapped both hands on her desk and demanded, “So, what do you want to know?
“You want to know if you have cancer.
Well, you don’t.”
Hold on, Nellie. I DID NOT WANT TO KNOW IF I HAD CANCER. “Do I have cancer?” was not on my list of questions at all. I didn’t have a list of questions. The sole purpose for my masochistic visit was that I recently turned 40.