(32 of 50)
Four days before my 50th birthday, I am getting a mammogram. It is my second. Yes, I know that I should have started at 45 and gotten yearly ones. But I am a slow adopter, and I confess to having a modicum of anxiety about the whole “breast sandwich” thing.
But then I had my first one. And IT WAS NO BIG DEAL. I think that we need to stop catastrophizing these routine procedures, which in many cases, SAVE LIVES. (More later on the colonoscopy.)
I am going to a new clinic today, but last time this was the drill: wait in waiting room (aptly named) for a bit, ignore all the people who are getting more dire diagnostic exams/tests, read Reader’s Digest from 1999 (an article about Y2K). When name is murmured barely above the din by laconic technician in candy pink scrubs, sound like an old fart and say, “WHAT? Did you call me?”
Get instructions for the fifteenth time about undressing from the waist up. “TAKE OFF EVERYTHING. Did you wear deodorant?” Um, no because 75 people in your office told me not to. One woman made a special phone call to impart this wisdom. Regardless of the fact that I don’t *wear* any products with aluminum in them, and have a very simple system of bra-and-shirt, I suppose they get really tired of having to specify to people that they need to remove their nipple piercings.
The clinic I went to has a special little waiting area for the topless-but-gowned ones. The magazines are only a month old. I read People and probably discovered that some former TV star had died and I hadn’t heard about it.
When you get called into The Room, the Express-Lane Effect starts. By this principle – that whenever I get into an Express Lane, it backs up because the machine is down, or there is a price check required – I will get the technician with the coldest hands.
And the most fun is the little tape pasties they put on you (cool! they come in floral now!). “No, I need to place them.” The tech scrutinizes your boobs, selecting just the exact center of your nipple for reference.
Then the breast sandwich is done, with two plates (which are cold, no surprise there) that come down to “gently” mash your breast tissue as flat as possible so the x-ray gives as accurate a picture as possible. Yes, it hurts but it lasts for about 20 seconds. The tech says, “Hold your breath!” to which I gasp, “No problem!”
Repeat that three more times. There are two views taken – one vertical, one horizontal, two boobs. So, 80 seconds of unpleasantness, some cool, high-tech pasties and the off-chance to detect breast cancer early while it’s treatable.
Not bad.