Aselin

For those of you who have been following the saga of the mammogram, this is an update. If you don't know what I'm talking about - click on the link above to catch up before you read on.

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The day before we left on vacation the Mammofreak clinic called again. Of course, the digital pictures they took of my boob-in-a-vice didn’t turn out clear enough so we needed to repeat them “immediately.”

The word immediate is not a good word when used by the medical profession. It’s perfectly fine when used by us patients: “I need to see the Podiatrist immediately.” “I’m having the baby immediately.” Our panic is always tempered by the triage system. The urgency we express is rarely reciprocated by medics so there is rarely rushing and bumbling.

Now, when an actual medical professional uses the word “immediately” to a patient this is bad. Nothing good in medical treatment is immediate. I’ve had it used a couple of times on me and both times it involved the loss of large amounts of blood and emergency surgery. So to me “immediately” = “bad”.

I take a deep breath, still frustrated at my first exchange and ask a really stupid question...”Since you read the films as I’m in the gown, why was this not determined when I was here before?” Shame on me, that would have made sense. Making sense is not what they are paid to do. The nice lady on the other end of the line stutters a bit and then just repeats her first request “We need you to come in immediately to retake the images.”

Well, it was not going to happen. My real life was in the way so I made the appointment for when I returned (6 weeks later, which was yesterday). This seemed appropriately immediate to me.

Before I go I give myself a little pep talk: “Be nice to the people this time.” “This is a necessary procedure.” “Everything’s gonna be OK.” I admit, I was a little scared.

Check-in and patient dismantling this time went much more smoothly. As I sat alone, robed, with Regis and Kelly blaring in the waiting room I swung my legs back and forth like a child. I was nervous.

The technician summoned me, at least I think it was me, it’s hard to tell ‘cause people can rarely pronounce my name but the last name was correct so I went with it.

In the darkened room she showed me the original images, explained what was wrong and then said casually “Take your arm out of your sleeve.”

I understand when you mammo for a living, this gets rather mundane, but since I don’t strip for a living even in an clinical setting I was a little timid. She matter-of-factly tapes a BB imbedded Hello Kitty band-aid on my nipple so “we can tell which is which.”
I suppose that makes sense, but Hello Kitty? I’m indignant.

Having none of my nonsense she lunges forward grabs me in some sort of mammo death grip, slings my arm over the machine and wenches me in. I giggle inappropriately and she says “Oh honey, are you ticklish?”

Ticklish? TICKLISH? Yeah, that’s what I”m feeling right now. I can barely breathe the pain is so acute so I, as kindly as a person having part of their body squeezed off can, through gritted teeth ask her to “TAKE THE PHOTO!”

She shuffles over to the controls, snaps the photo and releases me. I cover up, having survived the ordeal and stand looking over her shoulder at my images. She’s chatting away about what she sees when out pops: “Hmmm, I don’t quite like that one, the last technician used more compression. Let’s do it again!”

My ears start ringing, and I’ve forgotten to breathe, but somehow she wrangles me back into the mammo grip, cinches me in securely enough I can lift my feet off the ground. I believe at one point I passed out since the next thing I remember is her reading the second photos and me doubled over with my hands on my knees breathing deeply.

My self pep talk has long worn off and now it’s just a matter of survival. Of course I want potential bad news early so it’s easier to treat, but at this point I’m not sure if my boob can handle all this attention. I look down to make sure it’s still there and wasn’t pinched off by the machine.

Before I can even get my bearings this deceptively slight technician has me back in the machine, cranking the control until she says, smiling that evil villain torture smile “Well, this is as tight as it goes.”

I don’t remember much after that. Next thing I know I’m back with Regis and Kelly, still in a gown and numb on the right side of my body. Suddenly in pops Nurse Ratched, smiling and telling me that everything is “normal.”

Although I intuited that all would be fine, this is still a relief to me. But as I’m dressing I feel the disingenuous reality behind her statements. When we start calling what I just went through “normal” us girls are in trouble.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for technology, people who know how to use it, doctors, access to health care, but the day a fully dressed woman decorates your private parts with kiddie bandaids, grabs one shoulder and your other boob and smashes them between two cold plastic plates to take pictures is normal, means we’ve entered the Twilight Zone.