Mammogram

This post is not for the faint hearted and anyone who has never had a mammogram will not find it funny People who have a had a mammogram will not find it funny either.
Today I had a mammogram. The timings are exact, 13:56. They don't see you at exactly 13:56 but you feel that if they have bothered to be that precise you had better be on time. This works well. There is no queue outside the breast care truck. People sit in their cars in Morrisons car park until 30 seconds before their allotted time and then rush up the metal steps round the back of the van. At 13:56 I was greeted by a lady who may have been called Mrs Ice. She took my name, my address, may date of birth and asked when I had last been for a mammogram. I refrained from saying, 'I enjoy them so much I go every week,' and admitted that it was almost three years since I had climbed their iron steps, bang on time. I was told to "Go through that door."  This door is actually your only option unless you are going to head back down the steps or climb through the little window into the receptionist's cubicle. Once inside the door you are seated until the time you are being seen has passed and trepidation is beginning to escalate. You are then called through into an icy cubicle with a sliding door. Having semi-nuded yourself, you are relieved to read a notice telling you that you can slip your cardigan back on if you are cold. Seasoned mammogram victims will know that the moment you get your cardigan around your shoulders the door will slide open and you will be summoned to remove it and approach the machinery. The same lady who had checked me in and taken my name, address and date of birth, took my name, address and date of birth again. Quite why she thought I may have been lying on entry, or how I had swapped myself for someone else whilst trapped in the disrobing closet I do not know. I reiterated the information."Step close to the machine, Do you remember what to do?" I mistakenly thought a little humour might lighten the atmosphere. "I've tried to forget." I said amiably. The lady did not seem to consider that remark either humorous or amiable. Taking hold of the item to be photographed and explaining how I should stick my bottom out, lean forward, twist my head to the side and keep still, she placed it on the cold slab, and cranked the cruel upper plate downwards. I think the extra twist of the manual turning screw, was her way of getting back at me for the ill-advised remark earlier. "Hold that one out of the way" was something I was happy to do because pinching part of it in the vice might have hurt more than crushing all of it. This procedure is repeated so that both items are pictured from above and below. The sideways pictures are the more excruciating set for a person of small stature. It becomes necessary to put your hand on your head, sidle up to the chill angular machinery and then embrace the large cumbersome device as if it were a long lost friend. The pain of ramming a machine into your ribs is almost equal to the pain of the other procedure. Repeating the protruding bottom, the awkward lean and the unnatural twist, resulted in my hair flopping into a position which was not photographically acceptable. The tut was barely perceptible, but, as I was hugging the machine and had no free hands to readjust my hair, the lady had to move it out of the way. This was obviously not part of normal procedure and seemed very inconvenient.  Preparing to take photo number four, proved somewhat problematic as the vice had become jammed at slightly the wrong angle for the best shot. The lady punched the machine with her fist, the ricochet reverberated through my contorted frame. A second punch was required before the plates could be readjusted and the intense pressure reapplied in the correct position.
Smiling at the lady coming up the steps as I hurried down them, seemed a tad unkind, but she was old enough not to hold it against me and would no doubt get her own back on the next poor woman arriving as she left.
I am aware that I should be very grateful for the chance to assure myself of good health and three weeks after leaving the photo booth I usually am.