Saving Second Base

It used to be orange was the signature color of October. There was some nice symmetry going since both words started with vowels shaped like pumpkins. Simple. Elegant. Easy to remember.

Then pink came along and ruined everything.

Hey, I’m all for helping “Find a Cure for Breast Cancer” and “Save 2nd Base” but couldn’t they have picked a nice spring month for their pink blitz? We “autumns” have been waiting all year to finally match our outfits to our skin tones. So if I donate twenty bucks, can I wear hunter green or a nice deep russet guilt-free?

My middle child came home last week and declared she would never wear pink again. That seemed a little militant for someone who owned quite a few lead-coated pink plastic toys from China—and wasn’t willing to give them up. She did promise not to lick them.

But what about her favorite camouflage pink skirt? She’d forgotten about that. This is the kid who thinks camouflage is the new black. It goes with every outfit, every occasion. Would she stick to her guns and give up her flirty camo skirt?

I wondered where she got this sudden aversion to pink. Did she witness some poor, hapless student barf up Pepto Bismo at school? I could see how that would be enough to prune pink from the your wardrobe.

So what’s the deal with pink, I asked.

She looked around to see if her sisters were eavesdropping and dropped her voice to a whisper, “I know what it stands for.” She giggled and pointed to her washboard chest.

I spilled the beans on pink--explaining how it stands for curing breast cancer, not the actual breasts themselves. She wanted to know how they cure it. I told her everything I knew which pretty much boiled down to one word: mammograms.

I told her how important they were…blah, blah, blah…how every woman should have them…blah, blah, blah…and then she interrupted me.

“Have you ever had one?”

My mouth was still open, but the only sound that came out was uhh…uhh.
My mind raced through every lame excuse I’ve used for not getting a mammogram. Like how I called once to make an appointment, but the line was busy.

Shoot. Without saying a word, my kid had shamed me into getting my first mammogram. This time the line wasn’t busy and I got an appointment only days away.

I was advised not to wear deodorant, powder, or lotion on my upper body on the day of the test. Just the idea of not being able to wear deodorant made me start to sweat. This whole thing was starting to stink.

Before I knew it, I was sitting in the waiting room at Radiology. The woman behind the counter was wearing a pink sweater. Ugh. And pink nail polish. Figures. She probably had pink M&Ms hidden in her desk drawer. I wasn’t nervous a bit.

They called my name, and told me to change into a front opening hospital top. The technician was a nice lady who looked a little like my mom. She asked me if I had implants. I took that as a compliment. So what if she hadn’t even glanced up from her paperwork.

She asked questions to determine my breast cancer risk factors. I wasn’t worried. I knew that breastfeeding lowers your risk substantially, which is why I’m still nursing the eight year old.

That was a joke.

I unveiled the girls and the tech went to work. I must say we became quite chummy during that encounter. She pushed and prodded, heaved and hoed, arranged and decorated. When the “presentation” was to her satisfaction, the machine flattened me out to the size of a medium pizza with just a single pepperoni.

She said one word, but she stretched it out like an arty French photographer. “Bee-you-ti-fullll!” Wow! Beautiful? Was she talking about the x-ray or me? Actually, I didn’t care. I was ready for my next close-up.

We did the other side. We were a team now, Team Mammo. She asked me if it was too uncomfortable. I was ready to show her the baby-with-sharp-teeth scars and then thought better of it. I’m sure she’s seen it all—doubled. So I said no it didn’t hurt. Squeeze away.

The right side got a “Bee-you-ti-fulll!” also and the symmetry wasn’t lost on me. Then like speed dating, it was over with a “We’ll call you.”

It sounded like she really meant it. I was tickled pink.