There I am, half naked, in a basement, with part of me caught in the jaws of a machine reminiscent of the "Spanish Inquisition." I'm having a mammogram, but all I could think of was that, at some point, "Cardinal Shoehorn," in a satin robe was going to enter the room through a secret panel, and suggest that I confess. He was going to skitter up behind me and remind me that I had missed my last appointment and that, both the Pope, and Health Canada were very concerned about my soul. I know mammograms are helpful, but the experience is tough.
You can't have a mammogram and not consider your mortality. It's part of it. But having the whole show in a basement office doesn't help. The space is comprised of hallways laid out like a mouse maze, walls with absolutely no art on them at all, and the poor technicians who never see the sun for days; they wait, eagerly, for news of the weather, new fashion trends, and if there's any chance the Leafs will win the cup this year. And then there's the procedure; I had to stop at a gas station on the way home and "re-inflate" afterwards.
There must be a better way. There usually is, for most things. All it takes is for someone to come at it from a different perspective. I'm all for giving the problem to the genius that invented the "Dyson" vacuum cleaner. I have one. It's amazing. I have dubbed it, "The Dyson Dust-Fucker." (I don't normally swear in my blog, but in this case, the name is perfect.) This thing is designed within an inch of it's life and it is beautiful. All we need is another attachment for this specific purpose. Something you simply snap in, and, uhm, "present the cast of two." A sensor takes the reading, without radiation, without any discomfort, and perhaps provides a slight exfoliation to boot.
All I know is, that there has to be a better way. Somebody, somewhere must know something. The "cast" and I certainly hope so.
And just so you know, my results were all clear.