The Big Squish

So this morning's post comes to you from our local Starbucks, where I am thoroughly enjoying my venti decaf extra peppermint nonfat no whip mocha and a cinnamon chip scope and my freedom from people under 4' tall. Why am I at Starbucks on a lovely Saturday morning, you may ask? It's a reward from my husband for undergoing The Big Squish. (Easily squeamish/embarrassed guys should skip directly to the last paragraph now.)

To the credit of the radiology department of N*ton Diagnostic, they keep the room nice and warm, they provide fluffy terry robes for coverage, and they do their best to be gentle. But it's still weird to have someone else manipulate that particular set of appendages (and the armpits - don't forget the armpits!) into pancakes. Then, of course, there's the view. A Squished appendage of my size is kind of frightening to be honest. And, oh yes, you can indeed see the Squished appendage. The top of the Squisher is clear so they can adequately position and appropriately flatten the appendage. It's got little red markings for proper alignment of the appendage's appendage. But the part I really don't like is the armpit bit. "Here hold this handle, now drop your shoulder down and back. Now we're going to Squish the hell out of the appendage *and* whatever part of your armpit we can get ahold of."

I was lying awake last night - I went to bed about 1:30 and laid there for 1/2 hour thinking about this. John asked me if I was nervous. I was, actually. You know, it's not that I'm afraid of the discomfort - after 2 c-sections and a miscarriage (which hurt far worse than the c-sections), I can handle the Squish without a problem. It's that it really brings you face-to-face with the possibility of cancer. I read somewhere that a woman has a 1 in 8 chance of developing breast cancer in her lifetime. That's pretty damn high and, no matter how you take care of yourself (or not, in my case), you have to wonder "is this the time?" Is this the time my life changes permanently? Is this the time that I have to face that my kids may have to grow up without a mother, my husband parent without a wife? Fatalism, maybe, but still at 2 a.m., this is the sort of thing that runs through my head on the day before The Big Squish.

So, yeah, without benefit of coffee, I got Squished this morning. But now it's done for another year and I get to spend the remainder of the morning at Starbucks. Ladies, don't evade the Squish. Gentlemen, encourage the women in your life to get Squished. My mom is alive after 2 separate bouts and 2 mastectomies because she was zealous about her mammograms. The Big Squish sucks, yes, but early detection is the key.