I now know what my breasts look like from the inside.
In other words, a lot like something from Plan Nine From Outer Space. I fully expected Jacques Cousteau to come swimming through in a diving suit and one of those camera sleds you see them use on National Geographic. Lots of long thready things. The occaisional black spot of a blood vessel. And hello..a nipple. Just in case you get mesmerized by the surreality of it all and need a reminder of what you're looking at.
Ultrasound is kinda groovy.
On the other hand, mammograms are torture. Basically, get a car compacting device. Add an x-ray-machine. Now in the presence of more people than your Sunday School class, get undressed. Push your boobs in between the two plates of the car compacter. Let the two ladies who are operating the machine squish, knead, pull, push, and otherwise maul said boob until it loses all resistance, and lies there as helplessly as a new puppy at the vet's.
Now lower the boom. Close the car compacter. Keep going. No, really. Keep going. It's *meant* to hurt. If it doesn't hurt, you're not doing it right. Keep going. Suck it up and be a woman, dude.
Now. Never mind the desire to scream, don't move. Don't breathe. Don't even think about thinking about breathing while they shoot your boobs full of radiation.
Okay. Good. Now let's do it all again.
The machine was called the Mammomat by the way. I asked Kneader and pusher number two if I stuck a quarter in, could I get a piece of pie?
She didn't get it.
Something about mauling other people's tits must have sucked all the humor right out of her.
Well, in conclusion, I'm normal. No bad things visible. Which isn't an ironclad guarantee, but what is? I was happy to bid farewell to Petey the Happy Car Compacter for the year.
Why don't MEN have to do this?