It’s that time of year again, my annual mammogram. I don’t like them one bit, but I am now older than my Mum was when she died of breast cancer, so I go along, grateful for an NHS willing to screen me regularly. I make no apology for this annual post, Ladies and Gentlemen, check your breast tissue regularly. Yes, men get it too.
So later, it’s top off, bra off, and my magnificent bosoms will be squashed between pieces of unfeeling plastic and x-rayed. It hurts, but not as much as the disease, and nowhere near as much as the consequences. I hate the process, I am scared by the memories it triggers in me, and I am scared of the results every single year. But I am grateful.