The last twelve months have brought me some health disappointments, none of which was catastrophic, all of which I would prefer not to have happened. I am finding out that such is life in the seventies.
Today's experience at my health care provider was also not catastrophic, but it was disturbing enough that I will vent about it. It was my annual mammogram, an event that no woman looks forward to. And because I have had a couple of bad medical diagnoses already this year, I was expecting the worst. Fortunately, that didn't happen.
But here's what did happen. Mammograms are especially hard for me because I am very thin and the mammogram machine presses into my chest painfully. I'm used to that. But today the machine malfunctioned three times, and instead of the usual four pictures, I had to endure the intense pain seven times. I asked the technician why they did not cancel my appointment until they fixed the problem, and she said that the machine had done this only rarely until I got there.
After the exam, I waited for the radiologist to look at my x-rays because I wanted to know if they were OK. She asked for an additional picture. In the end, she was satisfied that there was nothing to worry about. That was a relief, but tonight I can barely touch my chest—it is still bruised and swollen from an exam that happened eight hours ago.
I plan to write an angry letter to the radiology department. That will make me feel better. And maybe even save a few women some pain.