Mammograms and other Instruments of Torture

When I woke up this morning and saw the storm still raging outside, my first thought was “Darn! Bad day for a mammogram.”  But who was I kidding? When is a good day to have your breasts squashed in a modern day instrument of torture?

I had been putting off this routine exam but the appointment had been made and I couldn’t phone and say that I wasn’t able to come because it was raining, now could I? This was not my first time, so I knew what to expect, not that that made it any more of a pleasant prospect. Judging from the cartoons and articles stuck to the wall in the exam room, my feelings are universal – at least with the female half of the universe.

One article recommends preparing for your mammogram by doing the following three exercises:

·         opening the fridge door, inserting your breast and then getting someone to slam the door closed;
·         going to the garage at 3 am, lying down on the floor while a friend backs up the car so that the             rear wheel compresses your breast;
·         freezing two metal bookends and then getting a stranger to squash them either side of your breast.

Remember you have to repeat on the other side.

For all the advances in medical science, you would have thought that someone had found a less primitive diagnostic measure. For sure, this must have been designed by a man, and his offspring are probably in the support undergarment business. If breastfeeding hasn’t changed your breasts beyond recognition, a mammogram surely will.

The young woman who was attending to me was as nice as she could possibly be - she even tried to warm the machine by placing a hot water bottle on it just before she attempted to flatten my breast. First I had to stand facing the machine while I coyly turned my head and had the first picture taken – we didn’t know each well enough yet...

Then I had to contort myself, sidling sideways up to the machine and draping my arm over it while the other arm was bent, hand on hip, looking for all the world like I was trying to proposition the darn machine...as if that would have helped. Then I had to turn my feet towards the machine and my face in the opposite direction, feigning disinterest.  

While my body was thus contorted my breast was manhandled (or rather woman-handled in this case, and mercifully so) into the machine.  When I was told to breathe in and hold my breath I realised why I go to yoga three times a week. I knew there was a higher purpose for my weekly discipline.

Jokes aside though...breast cancer is on the increase - a mammogram is a screening test for someone without any symptoms so that problems may be detected early. 

Do check your breasts regularly and have annual gynae checkups!

Couch Potatoes and Olympic Glory

I braved the cold for a brisk walk around the neighbourhood yesterday afternoon.  Usually I comfort myself with the thought that those extra kilos are winter padding and that they’ll be gone come summer. But, has it been cold this winter, or what? I haven’t quite worked out if it is because of age that I have been feeling it so much, or if it actually has been much colder this year. It did snow in all nine provinces last week, so maybe it’s not quite time to phone the retirement homes. I think the Olympics have to take some of the blame for the weight gain this time around.

I have surpassed my quota of TV viewing over the last ten days of Olympic glory. Besides the athletics and swimming, I have watched events that I would never ordinarily watch – synchronised swimming, beach volleyball, even judo. It has certainly been an emotional time – wet cheeks, quivering bottom lips and joyful smiles have kept me watching the victory ceremonies.

My nerves were completely jangled by Caster Semenya’s race on Saturday – I wanted her to win that gold so much; to say “Take that!” to all her detractors... I was puzzled by how she ran the race and a little disappointed at the outcome. However, it’s no mean feat to win Olympic silver. We have bagged six medals – our greatest haul since 1992, and Rio 2016 beckons. Onwards and upwards!

The last race has been run, the last anthem has been sung...and we can get off the couch now.  In desperation I have been thinking about a gym membership. I hate the gym ordinarily but watching all those toned bodies slice into the water, lope over finishing lines and leap into the air has ignited a spark – I will have to see if I can fan it into a flame...

Olympic Moments

Last night my daughter and I cheered loudly for Oscar Pistorius. We knew that he didn’t stand a chance of doing well enough but we were proud of him. His bravery, determination and perseverance are inspirational and his fellow-runners as well as the crowd certainly acknowledged that.

I have been enjoying the proudly South African moments brought on by our performance in the Olympics in the past week. I last felt like this two years ago when we were in the grips of soccer fever. We all need the positive model of hard work and dedication which has been provided in bucket loads, not only by our swimmers and rowing team, but from all who have succeeded in representing their country at this gathering.

Cameron van der Burgh got us off to a good start with our first gold medal since the 2004 Olympics. The rowers paced themselves and gave it their all with a final push to surge into history. And then young Chad le Clos...what can I say?

I got all choked up as I watched his bottom lip quiver and his eyes fill with tears as he stood on the medal podium. And who was not moved by the image of his father mopping his face with the South African flag which he then covered his head and face with. Every parent must have an inkling of what he was feeling then. I wonder what it must feel like to be so young and then to beat your idol – where do you go from here?

Our lone medal winner from the last Olympics, Khotso Mokoena, failed to make it anywhere near the top three this time, but hey, he is still up there with the best in the world.

Caster Semenya’s parents are braving an airplane journey for the first time in their lives to watch their daughter represent her country. I’m looking forward to that. 

Writing’s not for sissies! – by Nadia Kamies | The Writers' College Blog

Writing’s not for sissies! – by Nadia Kamies | The Writers' College Blog:

'via Blog this'

barbie girls - so fantastic!

Boys’ cross-dressing on stage is guaranteed to get a laugh. When we discovered on Monday night that my son's school group had not yet planned their item for the cultural evening happening later in the week, we did a quick brainstorm around the dinner table. “What about dressing up as...Barbies and performing to the song ‘I'm a Barbie girl’?” we suggested.

Out came his phone. "I'll have to check first." From cyberspace came a few tentative yes’s but he needed to discuss this further at school the next day. We seemed to be more anxious about the time factor than he did. The next afternoon, he came back with a majority agreement - and some very definite no’s. Never mind, we decided, there could be a few Kens. "Can you come and help?"he appealed to his sister. "But no hugging anybody!"

Two days to go. She got up earlier than usual so that she could help them before her lectures. "It's a disaster," she texted me later. Back to the drawing board that evening. We suggested a plan and some moves (keep it simple, no time to practice). We looked for possible Barbie clothes (anything pink, plastic and bright). Surely they have sisters? There must be stuff they could bring from home?

The next day after school I decided to have a look, bearing props for the supposed-to-be dress rehearsal (the day before the show). It really was a disaster...there was a sprinkling of costumes and some wigs; no agreement on the moves, and no music!

This was proving to be more difficult than I expected. It seems that 14 or 15 year old boys are more insecure about their sexuality than I realised. While for some it was ok to cross-dress, heaven forbid that they had to touch each other! Not even an arm placed around the shoulders or a twirl of Barbie to end the dance, was going to be considered.

At home that night we made lists, played the song ad nauseum and tried to work out a sequence, all the while aware that there really was no time to practice. Tensions were running high in our household. The next day his sister got suckered into another early morning practice. "My name is not going to be associated with this!" came the irate text an hour later. A big smiley face was the answer to my offer of help in the afternoon.  

In spite of Barbie’s disappearing to rugby or squash, arguments about who didn’t know the moves and worries about parents coming to watch, we managed to find a semblance of order. Getting them to move their hips was like trying to make a surfboard sexy, and hell would freeze over before Ken would allow Barbie to come close enough to plant a kiss on his cheek.

We managed to scrape together enough outfits and wigs, got the music and a big dollop of cheek. All we could do was hope for the best. Before curtain up, one Barbie got cold feet and another managed to camouflage himself with scarves before he sneaked up to the stage. One of the Ken’s tried to send his mother to the wrong venue. The front-row Barbie’s had no clue and Ken managed to avoid any physical contact with Barbie. But great fun was had by all. And brownie points for being brave enough to get up there dressed like that!