MAMMOGRAMS (Or How to Go From Cantaloupe to Crepe in 15 Seconds)

Because of my Mom’s history surviving breast cancer, I’ve had to get annual mammograms since the age of 30. I’m not complaining; it’s uncomfortable and a bit unnerving, but it’s just a fact of life.

But this last time, the lab technician was particularly rough. I think in a former life she packed sausage or stripped industrial wallpaper by hand. Mammogram techs are all women, so they’re usually sensitive to the uncomfortable situation in which they’re placing you. And certainly, they aren’t doctors, but this one had ZERO patient relations skills. And at about 4’11” tall (as well as wide) she made me look like an NBA center.

You’re already feeling vulnerable as you walk in to a very cold, clinical, dark space with a very large machine in it. You’re feeling exposed in your not-anywhere-close-to-designer hospital “grobe” – that’s a combination gown and robe. You’re nervous anyway, and you’ve been asked to remove your deodorant for the procedure. Add smelly underarms to your current list of assets. NOW you’re the picture of confidence and calm.

Then, you are asked to offer up your bare breast so she can lift it and place it on a piece of plexi-glass. Oh yes – there are also spot lights on it/around it/under it, so it looks even paler than it is. Most of the techs I’ve had over the years are gentle and very descriptive as they guide you and your breast to the point where they can get a useable x-ray of it.

Not Yoda the Jedi Boob Smasher. She grabs my breast and pulls one way, while telling me “turn.” Now I’m college-educated, but at least tell me which WAY to turn. Instead I turn toward her and my retreating boob – but no. “Other way” is all she could manage to blurt out as she started bringing the top piece of plexi-glass down for the top-to-bottom clamp.

“Grab this handle.” “Hold your chin up.” “Feet straight ahead.” “No, turn back – hips facing the other way.” At least she got a little more descriptive as I became a Cirque de Soleil contortionist. And now for the smashing. I have never seen my breast look more like a wheel of gouda than right now. I really thought it might explode. Snap – the picture is taken. Five minutes of maneuvering and mangling for 10 seconds of x-ray.

Now she moves the plexi-glass torture device to the side-to-side clamp. Same contortional activity, just a different breast shot. In this pose, my boob looks more like a Frisbee than a wheel of gouda. More maneuvering, more smashing and snap – the picture is taken. Luckily, the pictures are good and I don’t have to do any of this again.

Except for the other breast. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Yea! We’re done. My breast and chest area are a lovely shade of crimson and there’s heat emitting from it as the blood slowly begins to flow again. And by the time I get home, bruises have appeared on my upper rib area as well as near my underarms. I think this technician must have earned her world heavyweight title belt after my appointment.

See ya next year, Rocky.

When Did I Reach the Geritol Demographic?

So I’m watching TV. Who are all these new friends I have? Sam Waterston, Wilfred Brimley, Robert Wagner and Sally Field. And why is that aging garage band annoying me with “Viva Viagra?” I’m already feeling my age, due to the genre of advertisements popping up in my current choice of programming: retirement funds, osteoporosis meds, medic alert bracelets, hover-round chairs. Oh yes – and I can also install an easy-bathe tub and shower combo that will accommodate my wheelchair.

Then I hear, “Carol is a formidable woman. But she was no match for something smaller than the tip of a pen…” I look and there are arteries and blood and little scary clotting globules! And they are talking to ME. My name. Never mind that the woman on-screen is an African-American. It’s ME.

So thanks to a Plavix anti-cholesterol ad, I’ve been to a cardiologist. I’m healthy and my heart rate is normal. But I do have elevated cholesterol, so the doctor recommended the usual: modified diet, daily exercise, getting rid of stress. The exercise is pretty easy…my dogs help with that. Anti-stress? Well – I can’t quit my job. So it’s mostly up the diet modification. Now I know how my Dad felt when Mom fed him that first meal that wasn’t fried and didn’t have any salt on it. Fat-free cheese is still artery-plugging cheese. And even worse, it’s like eating Play-Doh.

And my husband – who’s a fabulous cook – is no help: “Yuk. Fat free sour cream is awful.” “I hate fake butter, it doesn’t melt.” “I think I’ll grill us a steak tonight.” “Here, I baked banana nut muffins.” On top of that, my Benecol Smart Chews look like caramel candies; so he ate a handful. I guess his cholesterol is taken care of for at least a year.