An open(ly hostile) letter to my mammographer

Happy 2008, by the way! Please forgive me, I know it's been ages. But I couldn't let this one slide...

To the tit-wringing little dark elf at Radiology Associates:

You didn't look surprised to see me again. Or thrilled. I know it's only been two months since you did my annual mammogram, but the exasperation, indignation and overall "Oh, you again?" suck-titude was written all over your brown-eyed pixie face this time, practically oozing from your pores as you ushered me back into the exam room. Yes, you think I'm a paranoid pain in the ass and you're 100% correct. A history of Hodgkin's disease and losing a beloved mother to breast cancer will do that to a girl. Forgive me. But if you think I was there for the sole pleasure of having to squeeze these DD’s into that viselike monster-machine of yours - and what with your IQ already being two points below dirt, I think we might need to go ahead and shut you down before you can possibly breed or replicate.

This palpable mass my doctor and I speak of – on the righty-oh, 10 o'clock or thereabouts? It's not a figment of my imagination, silly whore. And yes, as I sit here thanking every single deity whose names have ever been screamed from a mountaintop that it's only a little fibroglandular tissue, you should be congratulating yourself for having personally done the entire breast cancer prevention campaign a huge disservice by acting like a total twat.

It'd be unfair to say you're completely without a sense of humor. My favorite part was when you brought out that squishy little silicone breast model from your supply cabinet. You handed it to me, squeezing it roughly, telling me to press down and feel for the tiny pea-sized pellet, insisting, "Feel that? That's what it feels like. Does yours feel like that? No? So you don't need to freak out about every single lump and bump that comes up. OK?"

Well, thank you for that – and for your compassion. Nothing like a little sisterly empathy to get a girl through her second mammogram in two months.

And the slight twinge of envy I picked up on in that scornful sneer of yours took me right back to junior high. Good sweet lord, get over it already. You don’t want these things. Sure, the list of positives is a mile long, but the two main negatives are enough to make one reconsider: crappy posture and carte blanche membership in the creep magnet club. But then again, you strike me as the type of gal who goes for unshaven Bob Seger look-alikes who reek of stale Winston smoke and snort their biker speed off broken pieces of mirror. There's just something about your bedside manner that screams that.

Besides, you've no idea the extent of my generosity. Seeing how my cup runneth over, I'd happily donate an inch or two to your sad-clown cause, even though you're truly undeserving. With the right plastic surgeon, we could easily transform those mosquito bites on that concave chest of yours into a B cup, just barely.

Cheers.