I really wasn’t looking forward to the first mammogram of my life. It was probably memories from my childhood that haunted me. There, the entire village’s women, of all ages, stood shirtless, queuing in the school gymnasium, waiting to have their breasts inserted and flattened in a strange device. I am admittedly a writer, but my memory is correct. It must have been a matter of mass mammography in the early 1980s.
I myself went privately to the hospital that looks like a fairytale castle. I had booked a female radiologist. It felt important to me. I had barely had time to taste the hot chocolate offered in the waiting room before I was called in. A nurse asked me to undress my upper body. A dress is the perfect garment when visiting the gynaecologist, but when going for a mammogram, it’s a no-brainer. There I was in my tights.
The machine was small and pink, when I asked if I could photograph it, the nurse smiled and added that it is of domestic production. Then she placed one breast at a time with a familiar hand between two plates and the pink machine began to x-ray. Not only were pictures taken from the front, but also from the side.