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Monday, March 10, 2014

Pinky's Boob-Boo.

             Scotto didn't Photoshop this at all! These are actually my boobs!

In late December I received that letter. 

Some of you will know it. It’s from the government reminding you you’re due to book an appointment for a mammogram

Naturally, the letter was left sitting on the kitchen counter watching my every move like a resentful husband when he discovers you’ve ‘accidentally’ thrown out his favourite old t-shirt. Every time I walked past it I could feel its glowering stare and sense its urgent desire to miraculously flutter up and inflict a vicious paper cut across my throat.

The letter sat there all the way through January until all of a sudden it was the beginning of the school year.

'It’s too late now,' thought a deliberately dawdling Pinky. 'I’ll book an appointment during the next round of school holidays in April.'

But… procrastinating Pinky underestimated the determination and true grit of BreastScreen Queensland didn’t she. In mid-February they tracked me down like a lily-livered fugitive and entrapped me in my own web of self-deceit. 

It was a private number calling… I had to answer the call; it could have been the lottery ringing with exciting news.

“We’ll book you in on March 11, Pinky,” said the steely-resolved nurse on the other end of the line.

I agreed to her terms, feeling somewhat coerced but highly impressed at the unwavering doggedness of BreastScreen Queensland in looking after the health of women. Besides, it was still another four weeks away. There was plenty of time to work myself into a neurotic lather in the days leading up so I could relax for at least three weeks.

Suddenly, as if a time warp had encircled the Earth, it was March 9. It was with deep regret that yesterday I realised I couldn’t make the longstanding appointment and I rang them this morning to postpone, possibly buying myself another few weeks of shirking the responsibility of my own health maintenance.

“I’m so sorry I have to cancel, but I just realised I have parent/teacher interviews tomorrow afternoon,” I whined on the phone to the health nurse during my lunch break.

“Oh you poor thing!” the lovely nurse gushed. “Is that when you aren’t allowed to tell parents what their kids are really like? You can’t say anything negative and have to lie through your teeth?”

I coughed lightly, “Your words not mine.”

I looked up at the two small miscreants sitting in my classroom on lunchtime detention and wondered if this nurse had seen the light at some stage and switched careers.

‘She sounds very chirpy considering my tardiness at cancelling the appointment,’ I thought.

“Well… you’re in luck, Pinky! I have an appointment free this afternoon!” she trumped.

I had one last desperate card to play.

“I had a CAT scan two months ago. Won’t that be too much radiation?” I pleaded.

“Nah… you’d probably get more radiation on a long-haul flight.”

So, with no agonising lead-up time, no time to think up elaborate excuses, I fronted up to the clinic this afternoon and allowed the radiographer to clamp and squeeze my boob-a-loobies in an ice cold, torturous sandwich press whilst taking some cheeky holiday snaps.

And I didn’t cry at all.

Okay… there may have been a whimper or two, but at least it’s over for another two years.

Get in there for your mammograms girls!