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.