I dread that time of the year when I have to go to get my multiple mammograms. They were recommended to me earlier than most women, because my mom and aunt got breast cancer. And after, it became mandatory when I got diagnosed in my late 40s. So now a days it’s a ritual that comes around every six months.
The first kind I get is the common mammogram most women get. Then I get the sonogram kind and lastly I get the “no nonsense one”, the worst of them all, the MRI mammogram. I have to remind myself these machines are my allies, after all they saved my life once upon a time.
I will tell you a secret, last time I went for a check up I danced with the mammogram machine, the tall one that squeezes your breasts. We held in intimate ways. So intimate he knows things about me that no one else knows. Please don’t judge me, it wasn’t my fault. While adjusting my breasts the technician kept on instructing me to hold the machine very close and tight. Hold your arm high this way, now on the other side, place your hand here, tilt your head that way, hold your breath, don’t move, now breathe.
Soon, I was dancing with the tower monster, an intimate dance choreographed by the technician, and when she would step out to take pictures of us, he whispered in my ear. No, not the technician, the machine, and he told me about a cemetery of mammogram machines. Where they all go after they are replaced, where they collect dust, rust a little and tell the stories of women that came to them, reluctant, like me. Some had their lives spared and some others, like my aunt and mom, weren’t so lucky. They remember their stories, all of them. mothers, daughters, aunts, wives, grandmothers. I hope he remembers me and our intimate dance.
I hope he gets to tell others my story, how I once got to escape, survived unharmed and always shines clear, always shines free.
