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Getting a boob job

2 December, 2013

Today was the day. It arrived warm and sunny and not without some element of trepidation. Today I was getting my first “boob job”.

Yes, I am getting old. Hopefully disgracefully so, with my tattoo, youthful clothing and long hair. My GP informed me that I needed this boob job along with a PAP smear, blood workup and general once over now that I am over 40.

I made the phone call a couple of weeks ago to the Breast Screen people and they sent me out some paperwork. At least it wasn’t another bill!

I was advised not to wear deodorant on my breasts and that a two piece co-ordinate would be preferable. When I asked how long the appointment might take I was told to allow for half an hour.

My paperwork arrived and I brought it into work to fill out. Easy questions and we have no family history but I still had the concern about getting it done.

I’ve seen pictures on the tv of women getting their breast smushed and the pictures being taken of the breast tissue. I’ve fed 4 kids with these puppies, gained and lost weight and now wish I could get them hoicked up a little as they venture somewhere down towards my navel.

Funnily enough though, I was fairly calm about heading down the street from work to get my appointment over with.

It is a beautiful day out, glorious blue sky with such high cloud as the sun beats down. I have a singlet top on and forget to take off my holey cardigan in the warmth for the walk.

Pink paper in hand and all questions marked I jump in the lift feeling like everyone will know why I’m here. The old bloke in the lift gets off on a lower level though and I continue alone.

There is a staff member to take my papers and a new file looking very hospital like is ready for the start of the history.

I’m told to go and wait in the next room and there are some women already waiting while a tv plays in the corner. I couldn’t help but wonder what their stories might be as the room empties.

I’m called in and immediately I am at my ease. The operator explains the machine to me and then it’s time to strip off and be squashed and manipulated.

I’m a prude. I don’t flash my boobs (or anything else) but I’m standing in this room topless without being self-conscious. This operator has given me no reason to be fearful or shy.

She admires my tattoo as we get to the first side. The plastic plate is depressed holding skin, which is tacky from the heat of today and I’ve to hold my breath as the first picture is taken.

So far so good, other side smushed and then it’s a side view – this one is apparently the most important one.

All done and I can get dressed again. I’m out of there glancing at a box covered in buttons and back out into the sunshine. As I pause to put sunglasses on, refraining from sticking my iphone down my bra I glance at the time.

It took 15 minutes to be greeted, smushed, dressed and leave. I still have my dignity. I desperately want to put on Facebook that “I’ve had a boob job”, but hubby will have a cow – both at the idea of me having a boob job (like a kid in a candy store) and at the reality of having a mammogram even if it is a routine thing for us middle aged chicks.

So let me encourage you girls. Don’t be freaked out by a mammogram. Guys don’t be precious about your girls being handled by someone other than you.

I’ll give you an update when I’ve had the results which they expect to be within the next few weeks.

Pip

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