Aselin

I had a mammogram yesterday, which is kind of a joke in itself since I don’t have much mammo to gram. But nevertheless, I’m of the prudent age when us women are expected to suffer such injustices.

Checking in at the women’s center I’m surprised at the number of men in the waiting room. Hopefully they are just supportive spouses since I don’t want to be sitting gown-clad among any of them.

I’m not a very good waiter. I have a hard time sitting still when I know what’s coming. Glancing nervously around the room I note the cheap vase collection, blaring TV on a channel no one in the room would have selected and a water cooler. Loving free stuff I avail myself of some water.

The wait goes on, and I avail myself of some more water. I live in the desert. I am parched.

I followed all the pre-mammo rules: two piece outfit - check. No lotions - check. No deodorant - check. If nothing else I’m an obedient little impatient. My name is called so I gather my belongings and obediently follow an overly peppy attendant to a waiting area. She explains the drill. 1. Disrobe from the waist up. 2. Put on the uncomfortable, ill-fitting gown. 3. Gather all my belongings and exit the dressing room. 4. Find an available locker, lock my stuff. 5. Wait.

I quickly get to step 4. As I fumble with the locker you’d think I’d never encountered a low tech lock before. Trying repeatedly to get the thing to latch I’m getting frustrated. Over my shoulder a pre-pubescent voice rings out “Ya want me to help you with that lady?”

Great. There’s a ten year old in the room. I’m used to being bested at technology by my children but good grief, this is a LOCKER. She’s there cross-legged on the floor waiting for her mother. She’s too young to even have a bra. OK, well a bra is just a fashion accessory for me too, but I have a driver’s license so I should wear one.

“No thank you.” I reply as the latch finally secures.

Turning around I survey my options. On a good day I have a large personal space boundary. Now I’m gown clad in a room full of strangers waiting for my boobs to be put in a cold waffle iron. I don’t want to sit by anyone. Unfortunately, this luxury escapes me as I tuck myself in between two more fortunate souls who got to pick their chairs.

All around I’m just mad at the injustice of having to be there. And, my ill-thought-out plan of guzzling free water is starting to expose it’s flaws.

In enters an attendant that calls Ash-e-lyzz forward. I know this is me. The mispronunciation of an "A" name is always me. I jump up and she says “Let’s go in here for some privacy.” She motions to the dressing room with the curtain separating us from the rest of them. “Good idea” I sarcastically think.

She then informs me that they don’t have my old films so I will have to reschedule for another day.

WHAT??? I take a deep breath and calmly suggest we could administer the test and then compare them to the old films on another day.

This of course makes sense, which is why it wasn’t going to work. I was informed that my insurance wouldn’t pay for such madness and that I would have to come back another day.

I’m not sure if it was the slipping gown, or the urgent bladder, but I became a little forceful with the fully clothed lady.

“So, you confirm my appointment, check me in, make me get undressed, lock my underwear in a public locker, sit in a crowded waiting room only to tell me you don’t have my films?”

“Yep” the highly paid rocket scientist says.

“Yeah, we’re going to do the test today. Then, tomorrow when you have my films you can compare the two.”

“Whatever” she shrugs and walks away. Furious, I ruminate on the injustice of having to take this stupid test in the first place.

I’m all flustered, have to pee and am sweating a little due to lack of deodorant or lotions. Taking a deep breath I prepare to return to the sardine room of fellow gowners. Upon entering one woman applauds me. I’m shocked and a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I guess that wasn’t too discreet.” I sheepishly say.

“They treat us like meat” she says. Feeling camaraderie I agree, and we start to chat. Another woman blurts out, “I’m having a needle biopsy.” “Oh” is all I can manage. “I’m a fifteen year survivor” another offers, “they think it’s come back.” The fear and powerlessness in the room is palpable. Suddenly I'm not so mad about my test. Mine's just a check-up.

As we talk, my heart goes out to these sisters. We're all wearing the same uniform, but we're fighting different battles of the same war. I offer some words of encouragement, ask some questions and listen to their stories. I’m not sure how much help I was, but I am confident I was better than the droning television.

Leaving the room, I notice the ten year old, sitting wide-eyed in the corner. I smile, trying ineffectively to comfort her alarm.

Honey, this being a girl thing only gets trickier and trickier.