"Hi, my name is Diane. I'll be gentle, it's your first time. Just make like Cleopatra, melt like butter and smile for the camera. I'm an excellent photographer."

Disclaimer – this post is a tad on the TMI side. I’m discussing breasts, mine to be exact, which may be more than some can stomach.

I recently had my female check up. I received the letter in the mail, groaned and went ahead and called in to make the appointment. I figured I’d get the call out of the way now and schedule the appointment well into the future. They always ask, “how does 3 months from now look for you?” At least I’d get it on the calendar.

But nooooooo…there were plenty of appointments the week after Christmas. Yay me. Get it done and get it out of the way.

Funny thing – I almost forgot all about it. The girls and I went out for lunch and shopping and I just happened to drive by the doctor’s office on our way. I felt like I had an appointment there but couldn’t remember anything. Then it flashed in my brain like a light bulb burning out – I had an appointment and it was in exactly an hour.

I was so thankful that I remembered the appointment an hour BEFORE and not an hour AFTER the time. Or was I?

We grabbed a quick bite and ran over to the doctor’s office.

I had the usual awkward conversations during the exam, “how’s the husband?” “How old are the girls now?”

Then she mentioned that maybe I should get a mammogram, afterall, I am 40.

There has been controversy about mammograms at 40. I have done research, and discussed it with my doctor. It was my decision and after having some friends have scares and a few friends diagnosed with breast cancer before they turned 40, I decided to go ahead and get a baseline.

The good news? They may be able to squeeze me in at radiology right after my appointment today. Lucky me.

I was very tempted to pretend to turn at radiology, then run the other way towards the door, but knew that if I did walk out the door, the mammography would haunt me but I just wouldn’t find time to squeeze it in.

I didn’t realize how much squeezing was involved.

I was hopeful when the waiting room was full. But oh no, good news! they had an opening in 10 minutes.

Diane, the tech came and got me and took me back. She explained how I needed to prep and dress. When I asked her if I needed to remove my belt, she responded “what do you think this is? security at DIA?”

Ha. Diane is a comedian.

I have had to remove a belt for x-rays in the past, just FYI.

I walked into the mammography room and quickly learned my tech was a little coo coo for Cocoa Puffs. She introduced herself again as Diane and told me to make myself comfortable.

With one swift move, she whipped the cape back off my shoulders and looked me over, “Hmmmm… you are a medium paddle.”

She grabbed some bandaid-looking things that had pink daisies on them. They were nipple sensors so the person who read my mammography could geo-locate my anatomy based on nipple geo-location.

Diane told me she’d go easy on me since it was my first time.

I hoped she’d be gentle and have warm hands.

She made a circle with her fingers and asked if I had any scars or moles in the “region.” I pointed to one scar. Another geo-tag was placed. She asked me how I had gotten the scar. I explained it was a cyst removal, and she repeated it back to me. She walked back to the button-pushing place, repeating, “history of cyst removal, history of cyst removal.”

She arrived at her destination, about 10 steps away from me and asked, “What was the scar from?”

Time to step on up. Diane wasn’t shy. She grabbed me and placed me on the machine. She told me to be Cleopatra and wrap my arm around the side. I began moving my arm, and Diane told me “Just relax honey, I’ll do all the work.”

I like a woman who takes charge.

She began adjusting and moving my arm, my chest, my stomach and opposite hand.

“Just melt your shoulder like butter, honey.”

Oh yeah right, I’ll melt like butter as I Cleopatra the machine, tilt my chin back and leave my boob on the table.

“Just relax and let me do all of the work.”

Right-o. You’re the boss.

She adjusted and moved me around like she was kneading dough. She wasn’t shy at all and was working hard to get me set.

Diane then began cranking down, smashing me into the machine. I looked down. She yelled, ”Good God woman! Whatever you do, don’t look down!!!”

Now she tells me. I had no idea a boob could be flattened to that degree.

Then she realized my nipple bandaid thingy was too tight. She loosened the machine, and began adjusting my nipple, telling me it wasn’t supposed to be so tight, it was supposed to just cover the nipple.

I think Diane is a dominatrix in her spare time.

Diane cranked it back down, reminding me, “don’t worry, honey, it’s your first time, I’ll be gentle.”

If Diane was gentle, I’d hate to see it when she was rough.

I stood there, toes pointed (as I was instructed to do so) arm wrapped around the machine being Cleopatra, leaning backwards, holding my other side out of the shot with my boob flat as a pancake in the machine. I can’t say that I was relaxed.

Diane ran back to the button-pushing locale, 10 steps away and yelled “DON’T BREATHE!”

Could you give me a warning? Hells no. Just stop breathing right now and hold it for 30 seconds while the machine clicks and beeps.

“Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, RELAX!”

She looked at the pictures and exclaimed (completely serious, I swear), “Now that is a great shot. The picture is perfect. I’m a great photographer and I know what I’m doing, but I think I could get a better shot of your muscles, let’s try it again.”

I wanted to ask her if she really worked there. But she read my mind and assured me she had done this same thing with hundreds of breasts. She was an excellent photographer.

Diane told me I have dense, young breasts. I’ll take that as a complement.

More Cleopatra, adjusting, relaxing and butter melting.

I had to do it in another position on the left side then the right side, with another exclamation about how great of a photographer she is, but how she’d like another try at getting more muscle in the shot.

She wanted to take good pictures for me, since it was my first time.

Finally, it was over. I needed a cigarette.

She told me the redness on my chest would go away in a few hours, and if it didn’t, I had bigger problems. Um, what?

Diane re-introduced herself again, “I’m Diane!” and then asked me how my Christmas had gone. She said she wasn’t really supposed to ask that, but because I had children with me, she thought it was safe enough.

She shook my hand, sent me to the changing room and exclaimed “see ya next year!”

I seriously hope not, but thanks Diane for a smashing good time.