The Mammogram

I went to get my mammogram expecting the worst, since that is my nature, but it wasn’t that bad. First, I got to wait for around forty minutes, so I read a New Yorker profile of Mort Zuckerman. He is a bigshot who owns some newspapers and dates powerful women. He seems like a dick.

I went into a room for x-rays, and chatted with the radiologist while she adjusted my torso into impossible positions. She was a nice black woman with a slight British accent, named Ruby. She loved my handbag. She reported that she loves Vivienne Westwood’s fragrance, Boudoir, which comes in a really cool bottle. It has been discontinued, so she isn’t happy. I recommended Flowerbomb, by Victor & Rolf.

Ruby didn’t seem to like the x-rays she took. My right boob looked different from how it looked on the x-rays I brought with me, which turned out to be from 2003. Where were the ones from 2005? I will never know, since the bitch who took them won’t admit to having them.

Ruby took more x-rays, and she wasn’t thrilled with them, either. She told me to go into another room, to wait for an ultrasound test. There, I called my husband, to cancel our lunch date. I enjoyed getting to sound stoic on the phone, since I wasn’t really worried. I am perfectly used to bad news, by now.

The ultra-sound lady was a brisk little Chinese person with long black hair. I could tell she was overworked that day, but she still took her time. She didn’t like what she was seeing. I asked her if it was anything weird, and she said it was probably ‘just tissue.’ I was not reassured. She was really concentrating on the screen and typing on a keyboard.

She finally told me to wait on the table, while she went to consult with someone. She returned with a doctor, who looked at the screen and said, “Yeah, I see what you mean. I agree.” She told me not to worry, it was ‘just tissue.’ I made her repeat this a few times and she ran off after telling me to come back in six months.

I thanked the Chinese lady and she told me her name was Fuchsia. Wow. I exclaimed how much I loved the name, and told her about a fantastic book whose unforgettable heroine was called Fuchsia.

I waited by the elevator, where several medical-type women praised my big handbag. Walking to my car, I contemplated the odds of meeting Ruby and Fuchsia in the same office. All they needed was a Scarlett for the complete spectrum of Redness.

In summation, my boobs are good for right now, but who knows. I plan to buy many more large high-end handbags with my time left on this earth, but never anything obvious and stupid like a Louis Vuitton. That is my pledge and my legacy.