Copyright 1994(c) ONE MAMMOGRAM, PLEASE -- WELL DONE; HOLD THE ONIONS. By Del Freeman There are a number of things that, without ever having entertained even fleeting thoughts of them, I know I do not want. In fact, I don't even know how long the list is, because I'm still making it. For instance, I do not want okra and anything. I do not want invasive surgery that closes with the surgeon murmuring "Uh, oh!" I do not want five of six winning lottery numbers; any pet that rapidly gains an uncommon amount of weight in the midriff area; or candy, of any type or consistency, that contains the word 'sour' in its description. 'Sour' candy, for my money, is an oxymoron tantamount to 'honest' lawyer. And now that I am almost half a century old, and have finally come to terms with the awful truth that there is no Santa Claus, tooth fairy or Easter bunny, I do not want any more emotional masturbation by mail from Ed McMahon and his sidekick, Mr. Clark. My loving husband, David, says I am rigid, and perhaps he is right. I do not seem to respond well to new stimuli, and had sort of hoped to avoid any in future. Alas, that was not to be. Yesterday, I experienced a new sensation: mammography. For those of you who have never had this experience, let me forewarn you that the age-old expression "putting one's tit in a wringer," pales by comparison. I always thought that was a bit crude, but someone, somewhere, (no doubt male), has apparently been moved to investigate it sufficiently to develop a machine to duplicate the imagined sensation. This is proof positive that the Marquis de Sade lives on. ["Have you ever had a mammogram?" asked my doctor. "No," said I, innocently. "Would you like one?" "Sure, why not?" said I.] That, people, is what is known as an ill-informed response. Would that she had merely asked me if I'd like a crack across the nose with a brick. I'd have known the answer to that one. Correctly, this exchange should go: ["Can you say mammogram, Mrs. Whomever?," from the male doctor. "Can you say Bobbitt, doc?," from Mrs. Whomever.] I was, at best, a trying patient. When finally I left the hospital, the nurses were taking up a collection to send me to the hospital down the road for my next mammogram. The radiologist kicked in $20 without even being asked. I think he was a sore loser. I mean, he didn't have to get all huffy just because I said I wanted him to slap his Mr. Johnson up there and let me tighten the screws on it. ["I don't need that," he pointed out, logically. "I know," I agreed. "I just want you to have it."] I don't know what I thought a mammogram was, but I'm sure I envisioned it as something very similar to an x-ray, and equally non-intrusive. What it turns out to be is a Chinese torture device that works like an electronic vise grip of mammoth dimension. One is sidled up to it with one's ta-ta strategically positioned in between two level surfaces, which are then manipulated by foot pedal closer together until one's badge of womanhood is inextricably grasped within the two surfaces, flattened like a pancake. I expect the hospital must spend a lot of time on a daily basis turning away people with nose rings, dressed in whips and leather, queuing up to the machine and shouting "Me, first!" For someone like me, who has ever suffered from fibrocystic breast disease, (i.e., these babies hurt if you look at them), it was a real treat. My protests would have rung no louder if they'd done an emergency splenectomy with a dull toothbrush, sans medication. Finally, the technician called in reinforcements. Of course, since I enjoyed it so much we got to do more pictures than the average patient. We took front shots; we took side shots, and they went away to be read. Then we took more side shots and they went away to be read. Then we took yet more side shots which went away to be read. I was beginning to feel like Christie Brinkley on a bad hair day. The moral of the story is that we found two little somethings which the radiologist doctor "thought" were harmless little whatchanames. In order to ascertain more about them, we did a sonogram. That's the thing where they take this jelly out of the deep freezer, apply it to a probe, and run the probe all over one's ta-ta. I am persuaded that all of medicine is merely a prelude to full-blown massochism. ["Excuse me... I just need a touch more goop." Back to the deep freezer. "Oh? You like this? Well, let's just stick this little thing with a metal clip on the very tip of your ... ah... yes, both of them. Then we'll all take turns seeing if we can hit the bull's eye with a slingshot and steel rivets at 30 paces."] Three hours later, the radiologist still "thought" these were harmless little whatchanames. Furthermore, he thought they were non-aggressive little whatchanames. I interpreted that to mean that even if I have cancer, at least it's not P.O'd about anything. My doctor, the one who got me into this mess with that innocuous little question: 'Would you like a mammogram?' is a female. I have no doubt she is going to advise me to take three fingers and play with myself on an on-going basis henceforward. I, hysteric that I am, will be totally useless at this since I can already feel an increased size and thickness in this particular ta-ta just since yesterday. By Tuesday, I expect the little whatchanames to be, like killer tomatoes, the size of Cleveland. The radiologist wants to "follow" these whatchanames. That means six months from now I get to go back and do this mammogram thing again. Six months or Tuesday, whichever comes first. I have only one request, which I think is eminently reasonable. The radiologist doesn't seem to agree, so I think it should be put to a vote, and here goes... Next time, while they manipulate my ta-ta down to the thickness of a well-cooked grilled cheese sandwich, I want to just hold the doc's Mr. Happy in my hand. It will give me courage and calm my fears. Besides, I understood everything they said about the necessity of this procedure and how it wasn't designed to be painful but to be medically beneficial. I will go quietly into that good night, ... chin high and unafraid, if I can just lightly hold the doc's Mr. Happy. I know we can reach some amicable agreement about this. As I cradle the doc's Mr. Happy in open palm, just before they tighten the vise grip, I shall turn to him and smile. "We're not gonna' hurt each other, are we doc?" I shall ask sweetly. I am willing to arm myself, for purposes of persuasion. -30-