.....is there anything finer?

Breast cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer in women. Anything that helps us beat that scourge is a good thing, right? We all support Breast Cancer Awareness Month in October. Year-round, prevention is better than the cure.

I want to share my own account of what staying healthy entails here, so I hope this helps the guys understand what’s involved. And I invite my female readers to share their experiences.

Comparatively speaking, if a man were to think about what it feels like to have his testicles in a vice grip, a mammogram would be similar. I’m not sure if evolutionary biology liked to play ‘gotcha’ or was distracted that particular afternoon, but between periods, pap smears, bearing children, mammograms and then menopause, women have definitely gotten the short end of the stick. During my peri-menopause years, I thought I'd take a weekend seminar to educate myself on what to expect when the throes of menopause hit. The seminar was packed and all of us were separated into breakout groups. In one of them, we were asked to give the pros and cons of menopause. Sadly...the cons board was completely filled up. The pros board was virtually empty, with the exception of one, the most obvious.

I digress. At the age of 40, I had my first baseline mammogram when I was virtually flat-chested. (Yes, menopause has since....and inexplicably....caused my breasts to explode, and you are all the happy beneficiaries. lol)

Looking back on the initiation....and the indignity of having a pair of cold, foreign hands attempting to roughly mould my poor hapless breast into a malleable mound of flesh on a cold metal slab for the x-ray, I can honestly say that the feeling of vulnerability was indescribable. But if I thought that was the extent of it, I was sadly mistaken, because the true instrument of torture had yet to be deployed. Jarred by a clunk and a loud whirring noise, I caught sight of a large clear plastic motor-driven shelf gradually making its way down the tall tower next to where I stood, contorted and white-knuckling a nearby handle. Feeling like a side of ham on a butcher's block, I watched, wide-eyed.... as it got closer and closer to my breast, while I waited expectantly for the proverbial axe to fall. The x-ray technician had a masochistic side I'm convinced, because my look of fear did nothing to assuage her mission. Oh, there may have been some murmurings of pity, but they were lost on me. All I knew was that my breast was about to be squashed like a bug in a matter of seconds. When I felt the cold contact of the upper plate, pressing down and down even further to the point where pain was inevitable, an involuntary yelp escaped my lips. 'Mary, Mother of God!' I screamed inwardly as the tech requested that I hold my breath, while she took her sweet time taking the infernal pictures. The worst part was finding out that the same breast would then be subjected to a second round of pictures from another angle on the slab. And then I'd have to go through the whole process all over again on the other side.

I've had these done frequently enough since to recognize the feeling of dread when I'm notified that 'it's time'. For a number of years, I thought I'd rock the comfort level and cheat the system by going for medical thermography instead, a process which necessitates the submersion of one's hands in iced water for a half hour (read: fucking cold) to lower the entire body temperature. A specialized camera is then able to pick up hotspots, which are indicative of the presence of cancer cells in the breasts.

Frankly, I'm not sure which, from a patient's point of view, is the worse of the two evils. Doctors specialized in eastern medicine favour thermography as a more definitive detection method. This and the claim that mammograms apparently cause cancer cells (and by then it's apparently too late anyway) was all I needed to hear from my naturopathic doctor as I vividly remembered the torture of my first mammogram. But over time, thermography for me grew to be equally as distasteful. And the fact that the exorbitant price wasn't covered by insurance didn't help. Back to mammograms.

Whatever way one spins the process, it's not fun. Curiously though, there has been a difference in my pain threshold during recent exams. Either I've found a really great technician, or my ballooned-up girls have provided themselves with defense-mechanism cushioning...because the last two appointments have been slightly more tolerable. It seems that my fun bags have stepped up to the plate. Literally.

No complaints here, just to be clear. The experts tell us that screening for breast cancer, by means of regular mammograms, reduces the death rate from this disease. The radiation risk is minuscule and well and truly outweighed by the benefits of early detection. I will continue to have mammograms and look after my girls. I urge all women to do likewise.

Guys – please play your part by being your considerate and encouraging best. Screening is no walk in the park. If the physical pain and vulnerability aren’t enough, there’s that inner voice hoping that the results are going to be ok. When someone you know is getting their mammogram done, be understanding.

I count my blessings to have healthy breasts and no history of that cancer in my family. My heart goes out to the women and men who are not so fortunate.

Be well, all.

I've mentioned Pat in previous posts....here is one of his finest tracks, First Circle. With the incomparable Lyle Mays, Steve Rodby, Paul Wertico and Pedro Aznar. How's your sense of rhythm? Can you keep time with the band's clapping at the beginning? Try it.

[For maximum enjoyment, best listened to at a few decibels. ]

I've had an epiphany in the last couple of years. And it's been on the topic of kissing. Or rather, the lack of it.

As I reached the rather acrimonious end of my long-term relationship three years ago, one thing that led to that end was the lack of intimacy through kissing. But that wasn't always the case. We were always kissers, but as time went on and the complacency of where we were at took precedence, kissing fell by the wayside.

I don't know how that happened, but it did.

When I reached my early fifties, sex became a big damn drag, because it was painful. For a highly-sexed woman, the thought of drying up like a prune was terrifying. This wasn't normalcy and I hated every minute of it. 'Use this cream', my doctor extolled. Thereby introducing me to a mess that quickly kyboshed any spontaneity, which was rare enough anyway. So I quickly grew bored of that 'fix' and resigned myself to a sexless existence. I truly believed that my life as I'd known it was over. For a woman like me to lose my libido, it was akin to having the life sucked right out of me.

After the big split, when I eventually summoned up the courage to start dating, I quickly realized that the end I had seen myself hurtling towards was completely in my head. It had nothing to do with me physically. I quite happily discovered that all it took to get my juices going....literally.....was a rockin' kiss. Now, I'm not talking messy, invasive, unskilled tongue hockey...an utter turn-off. I'm talking playful, teasing kisses, focusing as much on the face and lips as the mouth itself. And having the luxury of time to do it.

Oh yes.

Re-discovering the art of the kiss turned my life around. For those of you experiencing lack of libido at home, this just might bring it right on back.

Just saying.

Ah....advertising before innuendo.

Not only am I filthy, but I also have this shite painted on my rear end.