I heard the doctor say, “It’s malignant.” It took about 30 seconds for my brain to register. I looked at my husband and burst into tears. I barely heard anything he said after that. But this is the middle of my story. Let’s go back to the beginning.
In August 2010, I had my first ever mammogram. I was 48. I know what you’re thinking. Your first “smash-o-gram” (my friend Debbie’s technical term for a mammogram) at age 48? I know. I kept putting it off. There is no history of cancer in my family, and I’d heard the horrible stories about how painful it is. And since I am so well endowed, the thought of someone smashing my boobs into pancakes just wasn’t high on my list of fun things to do. Anyway, I finally decided I couldn’t put it off any longer so I reluctantly made the appointment. I dutifully showed up 15 minutes early to fill out the paperwork and pay the deductible. Personally, I question why I should have to pay someone to torture me, but that’s a whole other story. I’m so nervous I’m sweating bullets, without deodorant, in Vegas, in August. Las Vegas in August = surface of the sun. You get the picture. I suddenly realize I’ve also been talking to myself - out loud. Crazed, smelly woman at 6 o’clock. I’m positive the man sitting next to me wants to change seats but doesn’t have the nerve. Suddenly, I hear my name. Oops, too late to run.
I’m taken to a room with a huge machine. It has to be the offending boob smasher. I give it a dirty look. The tech tells me to disrobe from the waist up. It seems like every medical appointment ends up with me taking off some articles of clothing. Why is that? Half naked now, the tech manhandles my boobs like we’re old friends. I don’t even know her name. Move this way. Place your arm down by your side. Twist your shoulder this way. Can you suck in your stomach some more? Wow, as if I wasn’t already humiliated. Positioned exactly how she wants me (I feel like I’m auditioning for a contortionist circus act), she runs behind the screen and shouts, ”don’t move”. Two thoughts instantly pop into my head. 1) There’s no need to shout, you’re not smashing my ears and 2) Don’t move? Too bad eye rolling doesn’t come with sound. Next thing I know, the machine is moving. I’m defiant now. Bring it on, I whisper. Gimme your best shot. Several minutes of mammo-manipulation (that really should be a word), it’s over. Suddenly, I realize that it didn’t hurt. I’m confused. What was all the hoopla about? I leave the building, triumphant in the knowledge I just lived through my first smash-o-gram. I beat the machine! The snail mail letter a couple weeks later states my mammogram results are normal. Whoop! Another fist pump.
August 2011, time for another bout with the boob smasher. Again, I’m not wearing deodorant (reference Vegas, August, surface of the sun above), but I’m not worried or sweating bullets or talking to myself so I don’t think I’m offending anybody this year. The routine is the same. Half naked. More manhandling by the tech. I still don’t know her name. Move this way. Suck in your stomach (sheesh). The tech runs behind the screen and yells, “don’t move.” Cue the eye rolling. All of a sudden, son-of-a-b, I’m in excruciating pain. I whimper and bite my lip. I will myself not to cry. This is not how I remembered it from last year. What the heck?! Thank goodness it doesn’t last long. I stuff the girls back into their protective holder and exit the building as fast as possible. No triumphant fist pumping this year. I search for pain reliever in my purse and dry swallow it. Wow. Now I know what all the hoopla is about.
A couple of weeks later, I receive a snail mail letter saying the mammography indicates an abnormal area of tissue in my right breast and to call for an appointment for another procedure. I call the number only to be told I can’t make an appointment without a referral. The question had to be asked, “Why does your letter say to call for an appointment if I can’t call for an appointment?” Silence. Finally an annoyed voice says to contact my doctor. Um...just a thought...but if it’s so annoying, change your damn letter. So I call and make an appointment with my OBGYN. He's the one that guilted me into making my first smash-o-gram appointment. When I tell him why I’m there to see him, he’s just as confused as I am. He says, okay, we’ll just bypass them and send you to the Breast Care Clinic. Yippee skippy. Sounds like fun. NOT.
I make an appointment. The office and staff seem nice enough. Again I have to undress from the waist up. What is it with the half-naked medical appointments? Like those silly paper gowns that open in the front even fit right. Yeah, if you have what I like to call Wal-Mart boobs. All you well endowed women know what I mean. If a chick can walk into Wal-Mart, pick a bra made out of cute multi-color, multi-pattern fabric from the $6 bin, and buy it without trying it on, she has Wal-Mart boobs. My bras are not cute, have a triple letter designation and cost a fortune. I have Neiman Marcus boobs. Don't get me wrong. I'm not making fun...I'm jealous.
Now let me wander over to another story about the girls, as I affectionately call them. I’m not that attached to them. It’s hard to find shirts that fit right. Bras are extremely uncomfortable and expensive (reference Neiman Marcus comment above). They get in the way. In fact, they’re a pain. It’s like carrying around two 12 pound bowling balls on your chest. My husband seems to like them, but then again he doesn’t have to carry them around. The thought of cutting them off has crossed my mind. But on MY terms.
