Negative existentials

As in, "there exists an x, such that x does not exist."
Which was, coincidentally, the subject of my undergraduate thesis.
Yeah, I was set to take the career world by storm.

Overshare warning on what's ahead, by the way.
--

Candygram, strip-o-gram, mammogram.

I'm not crazy about the word. In the company it keeps, it seems wrong -- all the more so because it almost seems right. ("After getting her implants, Desiree supplemented her meager astrophysics postdoc wage by delivering mammograms to frat houses.")

Dunno what I'd propose instead. "Mammograph"? That sounds fraught, too. ("Alright, lady -- put 'em on the tray. This here mammograph'll be the judge of whether you've been padding or not.")

Perhaps, "infernal machine not designed for the human body and that would never in a million years be used as a diagnostic tool for testicular cancer"?

Yeah. That has a certain ring to it.

Seriously, there are extremely basic design improvements that could be introduced here. Why on earth, for example, are all the bits that go up against the body comprised of straight lines and right angles? Granted, a basic curve wouldn't fit everyone -- but does a straight line fit anyone? Other than the man who dreamt up the damned thing, I mean?

But we digress. In our continuing occasional series on medical anthropology, let me just say: the US offers many significant advantages over the developing world in healthcare delivery systems, especially in the areas of cleanliness, the labeling of blood samples, and the absence of livestock. It doesn't do quite as well in the human-ness (or humaneness) of its staff, the part in which it divides up the visit into numerous rooms, providers, and procedures, all punctuated by long waits, or in that really freaky scannable medical ID bracelet they make you wear to make sure you haven't been swapped out in one of the waiting rooms scattered throughout the warren, or found someone with healthy breasts to take your test for you. And, of course, it utterly falls down in the area of cost and insurance, as I'm quite sure mine will reveal the procedure would've only been covered if I'd used their facilities in Guam, else have been liable for 95 percent of everything ("Studies have shown we can keep costs down this way"), as they've done with every other damn thing I've asked of them.

Anyway. Apart from my feeling like I ceased to become a person as soon as I became a barcode, and the absurdity, indignity, and unfairness of prodding, twisting, and stretching my body to the demands of the machine, when the machine patently could have at least met me halfway, the experience wasn't too awful. No one asked me for a visa. No one refused me a procedure on the grounds of my marital status. They did, however, ask me to hum.

I thought it was a bit of levity, but the ultrasound tech -- a taciturn and hostile person clearly having a bad day, and for whom my breast lump was obviously a source of irritation -- didn't seem one to joke. The medical anthropologist in me wanted to ask a million delighted questions: Why? What does humming do? Or that you think it does? Does it matter which key? How long have you been asking patients to do this? Does anyone else believe you?, but, geez, this woman radiated surliness. So, I just, y'know. Hummed.

But the second time she asked, I couldn't resist.
"What does this --" I began timidly.
Apparently, though, we were done. She literally threw a towel at my chest and began walking away.
"It helps distinguish normal from abnormal tissue," she called over her shoulder as she hurried out.

...Leaving me alone to wait -- for what, I wasn't sure -- in a darkened room. With plenty of time to do nothing but ponder: was there any way her statement couldn't be construed to imply the existence of abnormal tissue?

A more invasive "core imaging biopsy" is scheduled for tomorrow morning.
--

Readers, take note: Talking about stuff growing where stuff shouldn't be growing is always a dicey proposition. This is not a crisis. This is a small, self-contained mass, found very early, and, at worst, precancerous, and never has a "pre" sounded so reassuring.

Nevertheless, I'll be glad when all this is over.