And so. One of my least favorite yearly events of the year. The mammogram. Oh yes. That event when you, a woman that is, stand in front of a mammogram compression machine. Eyes squeezed shut while right breast, left breast are squeezed pancake flat. Searching for a cyst, a calcification, a tumor. Anything. Hopefully nothing. It’s stressful, this event. You just don’t know. You tamp down the fears. You avoid the internet. How 252,710 invasive cancers are expected to be diagnosed. Will you be one of those? Another statistic? And so you walk into your center. Mine? I’ve been going to it for 16 years. When they discovered a calcification. Performed a procedure. Left a blonde scar. I go every year now. Waiting. Hoping. Dreading. And so. You’d think these institutions that treat woman after woman who have a modicum of empathy for the person who walks through their doors? Maybe there are some. Not the one I go to. A half hour wait in a sterile waiting room once I checked in. Outlets that don’t accept plug prongs. No magazines. A woman named Theresa May/Mae is called. I giggle, on the inside. And then a woman calls my name. Led into a low-lit white-painted cinder block room, smaller than the last. Shown a dressing room with pink gowns. Pink. So feminine. A glance at the phone shows no reception. No possibility to text or go on Insta. Great. I dive into The Handmaid’s Tale. Another half hour passes. I mean. Really. There are no lifeguards on duty at this place. No one to update a woman. To let her know what to expect. How long to wait. What, what, what. This isn’t the first time, this waiting game. This is typical. Waiting without a net. You have to be strong, I suspect, to stave off the fears. Waiting makes you vulnerable, plays upon those fears. You would think the “experts,” the people who walk back and forth everyday on the worn brown carpet would know. Know that the women in the pink gowns? All we want is to go home. With good news.
Adrienne C. Moore: “I started forgetting more and more about the fact that I was frolicking around this bathroom in panties and underwear. By the end of the day, I was just walking around the set in my panties like, ‘Are we ready to go to set? Are we doing this thing?’”
Pix of Patti Smith.
We need a refresher course in Asking For It.
Restraining order tips.
Don’t let your dog eat grapes.
I’ve always enjoyed the Suicide Girls.
The City Hall Wedding.
Boys and Girls. Speaking to them, same language.
And now have a laugh with Marsha Warfield.