137. Torture

I am mortified to report that the radiographer today said she wished she’d had a video of the faces I’d pulled during the mammogram. I have never had such a painful mammogram!! Martha was a lovely brute. She grabbed my boob and slapped it on the plate. The equipment is more advanced than at Wharfedale so the top plate was like a transparent Perspex instead of the usual metal - to lull us victims into a false sense of security. See-through? Can’t hurt. Huh!
“Just stand straight please.
Move a fraction towards me.
Now please move your hips out a bit
Stick your bum out.
Now lean in.” At this point she began twisting and squeezing my boob for the best image.
“Keep that shoulder back.
Can you get that shoulder back further?
Bum sticking out please.
Now chin up. Up further. Take it right back (yanking head like an assassin going in for the kill)
Hold on....”

Plates firmly clamping my poor breast to the shape of a pizza, off she trots to press the button. Thank god there was a release button at her desk.

Anticipation is a terrible thing sometimes and that didn’t help but I am NOT a contortionist. I know she wanted to get as much of the breast and axillary areas in as possible and I really appreciate that but my posture has declined a bit and, though Dennis jokingly has occasionally said ‘stand up straight,’ I am aware that my default posture is nowadays a bit protective of my chest. It could be because my shoulder muscle (apparently the rhomboid) is still sore from radiotherapy but mainly it’s just comfort. So I can’t get my shoulder back like I could.

I am getting old. However, I was sitting next to a real elderly lady (I guess 80 as she said she was 40 in 1979). She was there because her breast implant had sunk. I know it’s ageist but it never occurred to me that an 80yo would even have an implant, let alone want it replacing, but it seems in 1979, if you had breast cancer, they removed the full breast. Hmm. Mum only had small partial mastectomies around that time but that was the new centre in Guildford. Anyway, after no other treatment and a 5 year wait, she insisted on a reconstruction. Good for her. She actually said ‘I was still single. Who was going to look at me like that!’ I didn’t ask if she found anyone. 40 years on, her implant has ‘popped.’ And she wants another one. Sorry, I’m taking the easy route - just get rid of the bloody thing. After today, I wish I’d got rid of both! However, I shouldn’t joke about it - tempting Providence.

So now what? Days of jumping when the phone rings, heart lurching when the postman comes, a letter in “two to three weeks” according to Martha, two to six weeks according to the leaflet she pressed into my hand. I will start relaxing properly once I get the all clear. Then I shall remember I had the all clear 18 months ago and I wasn’t all clear... Lose/lose. Such a great mentality. I shouldn’t joke: I came very close to an anxiety attack yesterday - I think too much has stressed me this week but it’s a good indication that I’m returning to normal. Unfortunately, it’s an aspect of normal I’d have liked to leave in cancer land. I’ll opt for this:

Post Script: 2am anastrozole-induced insomnia (plus anastrozole-induced jaw ache) and I suddenly remember the word I was searching for this afternoon was “bottom.” That is not down to anastrozole as far as I know but perhaps residual chemo-brain and a touch of age. Poor Martha didn’t call my arse (in Dennis vernacular) my bum; she called it my bottom. It would have been quicker to simply edit but 1. It proves the long-lasting effects of chemo and 2. I can’t bloody sleep so doing this is better than just lying there. Ok, turn off The History of Rock n Roll, plug in some binaural beats and read Thirteen Bullets till I doze off....