Yes, gentle reader, it’s a euphemism.  I’m talking about boobannies, the twins, Lefty and Righty, the fun bags. The Girls.

I had to leave a meeting today, part way through.  I had a choice.  I could have offered my apologies at the start of the meeting and say that I had to leave for an unspecified reason, I could have sent apologies and not even attended the beginning, or I could have done what I did: “Sorry everyone, but I have to leave.  I have a mammogram appointment I had to squeeze in this afternoon.”

There are a lot of times in my life I do things with no pre-thought or plan– just blurt it out and hope for the best. And, addmittedly, this was a little blurty, there is a method to my madness.

Mammograms are weird, uncomfortable and just frankly a bit annoying, But I have gone every year since I was 40, and I do so with humility and gratitude. Especially today,

I’ve been through a stressful time, lately.  Not one that is particularly unique or even rare.  Just one of those life situations that you go “Oh, ok, I see.  Thanks, Universe”, and then you deal.

So, on top of this, my last regular, yearly, been-going-on -for-a-decade-no-worries, routine mammogram came back with a request to take a closer look.

Now, dear reader, I don’t know if you have ever experienced that cold trickle of fear that those sorts of words can send down your neck, but it is not a good sensation. However, back I went, and with great trepidation underwent the Squeeze Machine again. And the report was clear. Simple calcifications. Common as muck. Nothing to worry about.

And today was just a follow-up to the the follow up, and I am certain as I write these words it will be fine too.

But here, at last (and thank you for your patience) is the point.  I’ve decided to talk about it.  A bit in a joking way, a bit in an “I’d like to share some information” way, and not a little “Hey, let’s take some of the stigma out of this, so that other women go: Oh Hai, I should do this too”, and lives, I truly hope, are saved.

Testament to this was offered on my return (imagine, the meeting was still going on, so despite having made a terrific exit, I had to re-enter). And comments were made.  I’ll spare you, gentle reader, but suffice it to say, comments were made. Pancakes were mentioned, and more.

And after the meeting was over, two women approached me to ask for a bit more info, and to express some of their fears. And I told them the truth (it hurts like a bitch, dear friends, but only briefly). And I told them to go get it done.

At my clinic, the ladies running the show speak in gentle voices and have soft hands and offer you a heated hospital gown to wear.  And every time I go, I make a production out of it. Because it’s important. If you are over 40, go get them checked, my dears. Please.

This post is dedicated to Irene’s sister Judy and their mum Margeurite, to Andy’s Aunty Carole, and to the beloved Mary Ella. And all the mum’s, daughters and grandmas taken unnecessarily. And to survivors- my friends Rhonda, and Jane, and Aunty Ena, who got it checked out.