Researchers at the University Medical Center in Utrecht in the Netherlands speculate that there is a shared origin early in life for both left handedness and developing breast cancer, possibly exposure to hormones in the womb.
"Left handedness is associated with breast cancer, most specifically pre-menopausal breast cancer," said Cuno Uiterwaal, an assistant professor of clinical epidemiology at the university, in an interview.
WTF? Maybe I'm just a left-handed woman whistling past the graveyard, but I need to see a lot more evidence that there's a real correlation here before I buy it. Right now I put these findings roughly on the same level with the Less Pirates = More Global Warming theory [may the FSM forgive my heresy].
Okay, but say that this all turns out to be true. Most likely it won't affect me; I'm already postmenopausal, so I dodged that bullet. Why does that thought give me little comfort?
Whatever. It probably means I won't be able to give up my semi-annual, delightful pressing engagement with the friendly neighborhood mammographer anytime soon.
["Pressing engagement"! Ha ha! Mammogram humor! Whoo, that's a good one!]
And now, the obligatory recitation of the greatest poem ever written about mammograms. Come on, you know what comes next: It's also the only poem ever written about mammograms! Hooray!
The Boob Poem
aka "Ode To a Mammogram"
For years and years they told me,
Be careful of your breasts.
Don't ever squeeze or bruise them.
And give them monthly tests.
So I heeded all their warnings,
And protected them by law.
Guarded them very carefully,
And I always wore my bra.
After 30 years of astute care,
My gyno, Dr. Pruitt,
Said I should get a Mammogram.
"O.K." I said, 'let's do it."
"Stand up here real close" she said,
(She got my boob in line),
"And tell me when it hurts," she said,
"Ah yes! Right there, that's fine."
She stepped upon a pedal,
I could not believe my eyes!
A plastic plate came slamming down,
My hooter's in a vise!
My skin was stretched and mangled,
From underneath my chin.
My poor boob was being squashed,
To Swedish Pancake thin.
Excruciating pain I felt,
Within it's vise-like grip.
A prisoner in this vicious thing,
My poor defenseless tit!
"Take a deep breath" she said to me,
Who does she think she's kidding?!?
My chest is mashed in her machine,
And woozy I am getting.
"There, that's good," I heard her say,
(The room was slowly swaying.)
"Now, let's have a go at the other one."
Have mercy, I was praying.
It squeezed me from both up and down,
It squeezed me from both sides.
I'll bet SHE'S never had this done,
To HER tender little hide.
Next time that they make me do this,
I will request a blindfold.
I have no wish to see again,
My knockers getting steam rolled.
If I had no problem when I came in,
I surely have one now.
If there had been a cyst in there,
It would have gone "ker-pow!"
This machine was created by a man,
Of this, I have no doubt.
I'd like to stick his balls in there,
And see how THEY come out!
At the end of this classic it invariably will say "Author Unknown". Chah, right -- and you can be sure the woman who wrote it wants it to stay that way, too.
* sinister = [Middle English sinistre, unfavorable, from Old French, from Latin sinister, on the left, unlucky.]
This post also appears here.