A mammogram and an experiment

I went for my routine mammogram this morning. While my parents blessed me with some great genes, the one that isn’t so great is the breast cancer gene. My mother had it in her early forties, I was about 10 years old at the time, and remember my father explaining to us that she was in hospital having an op that would save her life. The stress was palpable, even to a 10 year old. I had no idea then, though, what an awful time she had. Thank god she’s been clear since. My paternal grandmother had it too. Therefore my being very vigilant.

Mammograms, though, are not for the faint-hearted. I don’t, under any circumstances, want to put anyone off, but really, one would think that in this day and age of being able to speak to (and see) someone 14 000 miles away, across an ocean, some time zones, and a couple of weather systems, we would have developed something that allowed us to see our breast tissue without having to pull them as if they’re plasticine (for those of you who don’t know, they’re not!) and flatten them like pancakes between two hard pieces of plastic. For us who are, ahem, not-so-well-endowed, this is an especially trying process.

The funniest thing, though, was the Waiting Room, which was not unlike somebody’s lounge. Admittedly, somebody with fairly poor decorating style, but still – large couches, coffee tables with magazines etc. No YOU magazines though. What kind of doctor’s rooms doesn’t have YOU magazine? Tsk. I digress, the funny thing – there was a large TV sitting very loudly in the corner, set on the movie channel which had reached the end of an epic 9/11 movie and was playing tragic music. Very loudly. In a doctor’s rooms. I am here to tell you that pre-mammogram, tragic music is not ideal.

In other news, I’m conducting an experiment (possibly as a result of too-early waking – my mind wanders at 4:30am). If you were a chocolate cupcake, and could be eaten by anyone in the world, who would it be?

Sun and sticky fingers

I attended the first birthday party of friends of mine's child yesterday. It was at their house and, in the garden, they'd erected a jumping castle. There was a pink cake in the shape of a number one and chocolate cupcakes with hundreds and thousands on.

I sat on the stoep with the adults, watching as their children (about fourteen of them, ranging from 3 weeks to 10 years old) bounced themselves silly. Ok, the 3 week old one didn't, neither did the 1 year old birthday girl, but the others did. They ate enormous amounts of bright pink cake, orange chips and chased that all down with vast quantities of fruit juice out of boxes with Barney the big purple dinosaur on them. And then bounced. And bounced. I, personally, chose to stay far back from said very full, very bounced children. It just seemed wise.

I went with my lovely friends D and B and their daughter (one of my favourite people), M, who is two-and-a-half. She joined the jumping throng happily, after announcing that the boys must get off to make way for the girls. I completely agreed with her - the boys were much bigger and playing rough. She, however, then played the hooligan, perfecting the 'head first off the edge' manouvre in three quick tries. Then she, obviously (being a clever cookie) decided staying on the bouncy bit was preferable to having ones head in the sand on the edge. It was at this point she also decided (to her mother's mortification) that it was a far more fun activity in the nude. So there she was, pants-less amongst the other assorted little girls in their princess outfits (the birthday girl's sister) and baby designer oufits, giggling with glee.

So I had a sun-drenched, kiddy-giggle-filled, sticky-fingered, cupcake scattered afternoon. Who could ask for more?