A Little Necessary Smooshing

Otherwise known as... Torture Thy Name is Mammogram

A year ago I had a minor breast cancer scare.  One evening the Neighbor (as chronicled in A Tale of Two Neighbors) let me know that he thought I had a lump, and I should get it checked out.  So, off to the doctor I went.  Sure enough, she felt what he felt, and a prescription for a mammogram was written, as well as a recommendation to make an appointment with a surgeon to discuss biopsy options.  The mammogram showed that I was firm (a good quality, I think!) and they couldn't see any tumors, but my doctor encouraged me to have a surgical biopsy.  The surgeon explained it was well within my rights to get a second opinion, but since my grandmother died of breast cancer, I decided to go ahead and have conclusive proof that my breasts are indeed... perfect.  We scheduled the surgery for the Friday right before Spring Break, so that I could recover over the break.

I stayed at the Neighbor's the night before, and when my alarm woke me up that morning, he didn't move to get up.  I told him just to stay in bed... but I really wanted him to come with me.  I just didn't want to be that girl that had to ask again.  I had made my views known the night before... probably the whole week before.  Emotional support wasn't the Neighbor's thing.  Mom and Dad picked me up and we drove to the hospital.  I felt fine.  Then I was called into pre-op, put the gown on, and without warning, tears started flowing out of my eyes.

I don't know why I'm crying!

It's okay, Honey, putting on that gown makes you feel vulnerable.  I cried too when I had to put a gown on before surgery, and I work in a hospital!  Nurses make the worst patients.  She was wonderful.  Before long, I was wheeled into the next pre-op room, where I waited to meet the anesthesiologist, and eventually my surgeon.  The nurse in that room chatted me up for a long time, and made me feel really, really good.

The nurse warned me that my anesthesiologist would look like he was in college.   She was right... he strolled in, Starbucks cup in hand, wearing camouflage pants and a t-shirt.  A black backpack completed the ensemble.  He was cute-- and young.  The nurse assigned to me talked to him about giving me some happy juice (her words) to make me more comfortable.  A few minutes later, the surgeon came by to talk to me, then they started the IV of pleasure, wheeled me into the operating room, and the last thing I remember is being shocked that I had to get myself onto the operating table.  It wasn’t difficult, but on television shows they always show patients being lifted from bed to table… but I guess they are unconscious.  I was able to do it myself, and then… I was out.

I woke up what seemed like  a few minutes later, back in the pre-op area.  I was hungry.  (I spend a great deal of my life hungry—why is that?)  The doctor came by and told me that he removed a mass from my left breast that was as big as my fist.  It was benign, but still… as big as my fist?  Was there anything left?  He told me he wanted to see me in about a week, and to wear a sports bra every day until then.  

When I showed up for my follow up appointment, he examined my breast to see how the healing was coming along (just fine) and affirmed that it was a good idea to have the mass removed, even though it was not malignant.  Of course, that’s how he makes his money, but I appreciated his endorsement nonetheless.

That was last year.  Last week I went for my annual exam, and “Lynne”, the fabulous PA who works at my doctor’s office and knows my lady bits more intimately than any other medical professional, informed me that it was time for another mammogram.

Really?   
                                                                                                

Her gaze met mine.  Uh, YEAH!

Okayyyyyy.  I know that breast health is important, especially given my genetic history, but still.  Getting a mammogram is not on my top ten list for anything, except of perhaps contraptions invented by men to give us women the maximum amount of torture for the briefest amount of time.  

Today was D-Day (or should I say, M-Day?).  When I called last week to make my appointment, I was given the following instructions:

1.  No moisturizer or lotion of any kind.  (They obviously were unaware of the massive peeling still occurring on my lovely legs after the kayaking debacle.)

2.  No antiperspirant. (Are they kidding me, in the Florida summer???)

3.  No perfume.  (Arrrggghhh.... I can't even do a little spritzing?  Maddening!)

This morning I followed the instructions to the letter, being the rule-follower that I am.  I didn't even put hair spray in my hair.  Then I looked at my calendar to confirm that my appointment was at 3:00. It was 11:04 in the morning.  My calendar said my appointment was in fact at 11, not at 3.  WHAT?  Keeping my cool, I called the center, explained what had happened, and the friendly voice at the end of the line left to check my appointment time.  He came back a minute later.  I have good news.  You didn't miss your appointment.  It is at 3.

I am a fool.  And just proved it.

When I showed up ten minutes early, Florence and the Machine's The Dog Days are Over was playing on my satellite radio.  I love that song.  It is so joyful, and really makes me feel amazing, so... I stayed in the car for a few extra minutes.  No need to be early to the annual smooshing!

When I walked inside, I was immediately greeted, and led to a wonderful intake receptionist.  She took my information, had me sign documents for the legalities necessary when performing this procedure, and asked me to take a seat.  I might have waited all of five minutes, then was led to a changing room, where I put on a cute pink kimono-esque robe.  After a bit more waiting where I was forced to watch Channel News 13 in a tiny, private room with two other women at least 15 years older than myself.  We all agreed it would be so much better to be watching Ellen than Channel 13, but shogunai, what could we do?

A few minutes later, after telling one of the women that she was needed for an ultrasound, I was called.  What happened in the imaging room, stays in the imaging room.  The whole ordeal took no more than ten minutes once I was with the technician, and I was in my car and on my way home by 3:50.  I will definitely use the My County Imaging Center again for my mammography needs.  In the meantime, I will enjoy not having any unnecessary cutting, or smooshing, for another twelve months.  As previously stated, breast health is extraordinarily important.  Just not on my list of things to do for another year.... at which time, I will put up with one hour of pain.... for the gain of knowing that I do not have breast cancer.