May 22, 2006
Hardships Endured
I've heard tell that, the bigger your boobs are, the more painful a mammogram is. Chilling words, indeed, for one sporting a D cup and facing her first mammogram. Welcome to my Friday Morning.
No, welcome to my Last Tuesday Morning, because that's when I started freaking out about it.
We ladies who are fortunate enough not to have breast cancer in our family history, are supposed to get a baseline mammogram at age 35, then one a year starting at age 40.
A baseline mammogram. The mammogram against which all other mammograms are judged. Talk about pressure! I wanted to make sure The Girls were at their best, but how to do that when you're not allowed to wear lotion or perfume? Not even baby powder or deodorant! My breasts were naked and without adornment!
And cold.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
As you well know, I'm 36. And a half. I've been putting this off for some time now. And it's because of my mother that I haven't put it off another year and a half. My apples didn't fall far from her tree (thanks, Mom!), and she was always reassuring whenever I spoke of my impending mammo.
She's a very level-headed woman. Her Life Motto is, "Don't panic until it's time to panic." I love that. Don't freak out. Don't create drama. And if something could potentially save your life, suck it up and take the pain for a few seconds, ya bozo.
So I gave myself a pep talk: "Wenchie," I says, says I. "You are quite well endowed, it's true. But think of those women with boobs bigger than yours! You're hardly in the top percentile. What about those women who have to have their bras specially made? They must get mammograms, too. And if they can do it, you can do it. Ya big pansy."
So I did it. On Friday. Had to show up at 9:00 for a 9:30 appt., for the filing out of forms, and the changing into flattering hospital attire, and the superfluous waiting around that is mandatory when you're shelling out buttloads of money to be physically tortured.
The "gown" I had to wear (I love how these things bear the same title as the fabulous, designer-made garb that clings adoringly to Halle Berry's perfect form on the red carpet) had three sleeves. Three. I, like most folks I know, have only two arms.
I stood there in the dressing room, looking at the three holes, waiting for the design to suddenly make sense to me. I had visions of walking out into the waiting room and all the other women laughing at me. Junior high all over again. (Only this time, I could actually fill a bra.)
I put it on and sat down quickly. No one else looked especially stylish, so I calmed down and opened my book. Oprah was on the television set, and all the other women were watching. Which led me to wonder what's on the t.v. in the room where the men wait for their colonoscopy, and envy them. I hate Oprah.
Finally, my name was called, and I followed a petite, fairly attractive woman into a room. The three-armed gown, I figured out, was supposed to allow one breast to remain covered whilst the other one was being photographed. Like, at that point, modesty is of the utmost importance. Gimme a break. Just lemme wear a poncho or walk around topless because the three-arm gown is an awful lot of fuss for the illusion of decorum.
I say illusion because, once the breast is unveiled, it is Play-Doh in the mammographer's hands. Hoist it up, pull it onto the glass, smoosh it flat. Oh, shuh, thank God my other breast isn't visible. It's not about propriety -- it's about not letting the left breast see what lies ahead for it.
There were the hogans, exposed for all to see, and I'm like, "Sure is cold in here!" But we could both see that for ourselves, if you catch my drift. So when she put the stickers on my nips, it was just not possible not to laugh. The stickers have a tiny metal ball on each, so she can tell where the nipples are in the pictures.
And of course, I was looking at them thinking, "I wonder if she'd give me a pair for Barbie...?" But I chickened out and didn't ask.
She took two photos of each: one vertical, one horizontal. And it hurt, yeah, but not horribly bad, and only for a few seconds. Actually, I was giggling much of the time.
In trying to pose the girls for the best possible photo, she was like, "Okay, put your left hand over your head. Now hold your other breast out of the way with your other hand. Chin up. Suck in your stomach." Oh, pleasejusttakethepicturealreadyyyyyyyyyy!!!
Afterwards, I had to go back to the waiting room while the mammographer looked over my glamour shots to make sure she got what she needed. By then, "The View" was on the television. I hate "The View" more than I hate Oprah. They are screeching harpies. They are everything that's obnoxious about the female gender. Let's face it -- they are everything that's only funny when I do it.
Their "interviews" are anything but because a guest can't get the first part of a sentence out before being interrupted by Starr Jones and that red-headed chick being just bitchy and risqué enough to make the token twenty-something widen her eyes in faux-shock, but not enough to anger Barbara. And I totally stopped typing to make quote signs in the air because that's how truly horrifying they are. I tried to read my book, but the cackling gnawed at my brain. For thirty-five minutes.
Mammo-chick said it'd be "ten or fifteen minutes," and then left me to endure half an episode of "The View." I could get over the smooshing, but THIS. THIS! Was unforgivable!
I hate being pushy at hospitals because I know they're busy and understaffed and there's always some weird, unforeseen incident they have to deal with. But I had to do it. I asked one of the other mammographers if I could go. She checked with The Great and Powerful Oz, and five seconds later, I was released back into the wild.
Since I didn't want them tracking me, I went into the dressing room and set about removing the tiny metal balls from my nipples. And I can honestly say -- Worst Pain of the Entire Mammogram! Peeling that super-sticky sticker off my poor nip. I have no children! My nipples have not been nursed into tough, no-nonsense patches of hardships endured. They are pristine and sensitive!
For the second one, I decided to take the Band-Aid approach and rip it off quickly.
I don't recommend it.
Driving home, my nipples were still screaming obscenities at me.
(By the way, is mammographer a word?)
Comments
I think it would have to be a word.
I'm not 35 yet, but see, I just can't imagine. They can keep their 3 armed drop clothes and leave my boobs alone, thankyouverymuch!
Posted by: Queen of Ass at May 22, 2006 02:00 PM
See, they should bill it as a mammogram and a beginning BDSM lesson, and more people would show up early. Trendy!
Posted by: Adam at May 22, 2006 04:22 PM
after reading the first line of this blog i thought yay no pain for me
Posted by: the New Girl at May 22, 2006 04:41 PM
I also heard it was painful for the larger cupped ladies.
After having mine (at 30) I rather thought it would be more so for the smaller ladies. It seemed to me that it would pinch more if you have less surface area. If that makes any sense.
Posted by: AB at May 22, 2006 05:12 PM
I was treated to an episode of "The Golden Girls" for my mammo-waiting time. Ironic.
Posted by: Lola at May 23, 2006 09:16 AM
I loved your blog about the mammogram and am very happy and proud that you decided to leave your dignity and shyness at the door and let them use your girls for PlayDough. Thank God each squeeze is only about 5 seconds long or I don't think anyone would ever have one done. But don't forget to have it done yearly.
Posted by: Mommie Dearest at May 23, 2006 12:01 PM