Boobie Smushing (& Body Image)

I got my first mammogram last week.

I'd always heard that mammograms sucked. I imagined one of the worst pains imaginable; my boobs in a vice, essentially, and being cranked down until they felt like they were about to pop.

Fortunately, that is a lie. It doesn't hurt that bad. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't say it even hurt. It wasn't as bad as a Pap. A little uncomfortable, maybe, but nowhere near internal-at-26-weeks pain, or even relatively close to a magnesium drip for 72 hours.

I will say though, it was awkwarddddd. But not for the reasons you might think. Yes, the technician was an 80 year old woman with the coldest hands of any living being, and yes, it was embarassing when a little left over milk leaked out onto the platform... but the changing room was the most awkward.

After spending about twenty minutes in the office with a young lady that assured me several times that she had no clue why health insurance companies hire foreign call centers, I went into this tiny closet to change. I took off my shirt and bra, and wiped my deoderant off with a baby wipe (all the while thanking the powers that be that I shaved under my arms that day, quite the feat at this point in my life). I put on this little cape... and had to hold my boobs up underneath it because they are so large you could see them hanging. That was quite attractive, I assure you. Good heavens I love Lane Bryant and their super bras.

I turned to the mirror, and saw myself in a very different way than I usually do. Above the high rise of my jeans, a dark purple line snaked up the center of my belly. Jagged lines like tiger scretches covered my sides. My skin was loose; it hung off of my body in the least flattering way possible. The light, flourescent and damning, highlighted every bump and blemish.

My body felt... ugly.

And at that point I heard them call my name, and got back to reality. How worried would I be about my stretch marks and c-section scar if I was going into that room because I'd found something, and not because I'm paranoid? How much of my "fight" is just me taking the advice of a few doctors and over dramatizing it to the point that I feel it is life or death?

And how much of it is that I hate my body so much, I'll do anything to change it?

....And why the HELL do they put mirrors in those changing rooms?