Warning: This blog post is about breasts but not in a sexy way. Viewer discretion (I'm talking to you, perv men who are obnoxiously obsessed with boobs, which is probably most of you) is advised.
In case you didn't already know, I turned 40 this year. When I went to the doctor for my annual appointment, the first thing she said was, "Let's get you scheduled for a mammogram."
Sigh . . . mammograms . . .
I remembered my forty-something mother (so old at the time) telling me about mammograms.
"They squeeze your boobs into a vice thingy," she told me.
"What if your boobs are too small?" I asked.
"Oh, they will find a way," she assured me, then added her PSA, "but it's worth it. It can save your life."
When the breast clinic called, the woman scheduling me asked, "Have you had any breast issues, or is this just because you're grown up now?"
"No issues," I said. "I turned forty. That's my issue."
I started to do some informal research, partially for blog material but also because I was nervous.
"It's uncomfortable, but it's quick," one friend told me.
When I asked another friend if it hurt, she answered me with a terrified nod.
Later she tracked me down and recanted guiltily, "It's not that bad. We go through a lot worse as women."
"My mother used to come home black and blue, but it's not like that anymore," another friend said.
Later that week, my brother texted me to tell me about an event he had on Monday, the exact day I was scheduled for my mammogram.
"I have my first mammogram because #I'm40Now. New experiences for both of us. I bet mine will hurt more," I texted.
"LOL. But we are both doing these things because we are older and more mature ;)," he responded.
The jury is still out on that one.
The clinic sent me a list of things to prepare me for my mammogram. I couldn't wear deodorant, powder, or lotion. (I didn't even use soap that day.) I was supposed to wear slacks or a skirt.
"No jeans? What about yoga pants? Who calls pants slacks anymore anyway?" I asked Google.
Google told me, "They want you to wear two pieces, as in 'not a dress,' so you don’t have to strip naked."
The night before my mammogram, I lay on the couch and found all kinds of lumps in my breasts. I started to panic. My husband, Dan, suggested I calm down by watching The Walking Dead with him.
The next morning, I killed time before my appointment by watching Act Three of La Traviata on PBS. That probably wasn't the best idea either.
When I arrived at the clinic, I was by far the youngest person in the waiting room. I noticed no one was in jeans, and I panicked for a second. Maybe I wasn't supposed to wear jeans after all. Maybe only slacks were allowed. Then I realized all the other women were in that I-only-wear-knit-pants stage of life.
The technician called my name and took me back through a maze to the dressing room. She handed me a pink floral gown.
"This lovely thing will hang to your ankles," she said with a chuckle.
Apparently, the gown didn't come in petite sizes. It actually hung past my feet and over my hands.
I learned I have dense breasts, and the technician was pleased that I chose the new 3D method because of my dense breasts. It felt strangely affirming that the technician thought I made well-informed decisions.
I also learned I have a "raised" spot on my left breast, although I still don't know what that means. I found out about this raised spot because she had to tag it so it wouldn't show up as a false positive on the image.
She also checked my skin to tag moles.
"I'm not a dermatologist, so don't rush to your doctor freaked out after this," she said.
"What? Skin cancer too?" I said, and we both had a good laugh.
I had heard that women with bigger breasts have an easier time with mammograms, and I always thought mine were fairly big. But, man, she really had to twist and stretch them to get them onto the platform.
The vice thingy compressed my boobs, and I was told to breathe, then not to breathe, then to stick my hips out, then to hang like a rag doll, then to put my elbow out, then to hold my gown tight with my other hand, then to press my cheek against the machine.
During one of the stranger body contortions, the technician asked me, "How are you doing?"
"It's not my favorite thing, but I'm fine."
A couple of seconds later, she stumbled slightly over the stool.
"Oops! Better watch where I'm going!" she said.
"Yeah, I can't do this on my own."
"Sure you could!"
We giggled at that.
For women who are nervous about getting their first mammogram, here is the bottom line. (Or maybe I am the only one who gets neurotic over these things.)
A mammogram feels a bit like your breasts are being closed slowly and deliberately in a refrigerator door. It's a feeling of compression and pressure, not really pain. It isn't any more uncomfortable than a pap smear or other exams we women have to endure, and I imagine it's nothing compared to labor pains or giving birth.
The only slightly painful part was when the machine pressed up against my sternum. I am kind of bony there where my cleavage should actually be. As my theater friends, who have seen me naked numerous times, know, you could drive a Mack Truck through my cleavage. I have no boob cushion there.
But it's worth it because, as my mother would say, a mammogram can save your life.
Plus, they let you keep this reusable bag.
 |
| Am I going to get one of these every year? |
I returned home from my appointment (after stopping by Starbucks and The Gap since I totally deserved it) to find out I had left the garage door open for two hours. I was so distracted by whether or not I should wear jeans or slacks to my mammogram that I had forgotten to secure our house.
What's the biggest crime in our neighborhood? Bike theft!
By the way, no one stole our bikes, and my mammogram came back normal. I can breath easy . . . at least for another year.
For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan.
No comments:
Post a Comment