Who's Your Audience

Tomorrow morning I am scheduled to have my very first mammogram. I will turn 40 in just over one month. For the past two years, my gynecologist (Dr D) has recommended that I just go ahead and get it over with. Although I don't have a family history of breast cancer, Dr D is a strong proponent of preventative medicine. Despite the folded up order for a routine mammogram that's been secretly stashed in my purse since my license bore my maiden name, I have been avoiding the inevitable. Had you been a reader of Ye Ole' Blog, you are aware that I suffer from vasovagal syncope. In other words, I face the possibility of fainting when exposed to any of the following stimuli: sight of blood, seeing someone in great pain, sudden onset of extreme emotions, any procedures or examinations that have to do with the female organs. I'm sure there are other uncomfortable events that could elicit the same response but these are the ones that I've experienced thus far in life.

I have disclosed this condition to my husband who never gave it much thought until last night. We were sitting (I was actually lying) on the couch discussing my need for a mammogram. I told him that I had been avoiding scheduling an appointment simply because I knew it would be an ordeal. I went on to further explain that whenever I notice a medical problem with myself, I get lightheaded and begin to see lights. That usually leads to a black out unless I'm lying down on my back. I just had this experience a few months back while being diagnosed with myomas. My husband's reaction was one of shock and surprise. He couldn't believe that I don't even examine my own breasts for fear that I may find something, get upset, then black out. His exclamation? "You're an effing fainting goat!"

And so, friends and family, with that in mind, I scheduled the appointment just today. Tomorrow at 9:45, I will bravely sign myself in to the breast care center and either bear it...or afterwards be called rubber boob because I passed out while my boob was being smashed in the machine...and thus stretched from the machine to the floor.

Really? And all men have to do is cough.