I loathe the smell of doctors’ offices, which hardly makes me unique. The smell of this one bothered me a bit more, possibly because the scent of my own fear was mixed into the energy around me. Then again, maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was ordered not to wear deodorant. Or perfume. Or the lemon grass lotion that was the only thing keeping my dry skin from peeling off in large flakes like a snake shedding its skin. I assume these items can leave residue on the mammogram equipment, but perhaps the technician simply doesn’t want to spend the day with her eyes stinging from the misguided aftermath of musk and wild flowers that reflect more the “wild” than the “flowers.” Whatever the reason, there I sat, my t-shirt developing pit stains while I tried to convince myself there was nothing to be scared of. This is what happens when you turn forty; you have to be a big girl and get your breasts squished as part of a preventive care regime, a preventive care regime that involves more green and leafy vegetables, journeys to hell and back on the treadmill, and fewer chocolate chip cookies that are the size of my head.
The truth is, I had wanted to schedule a facial instead of this appointment. My day off from work shouldn’t be spent sweating through my t-shirt as I feel my left eye begin to develop a nervous twitch. I really don’t want a mammogram; I’m fine with postponing big girl responsibilities and living in blissful ignorance as to the state of my breast tissue. The advertisements that pop up on my Facebook page suggest that my skin needs some attention; I’d rather address clogged pores because I can see the results. So, I told myself that a facial was equally important – and perhaps a better use of my time. No strange smells in those cozy little rooms, and deodorant is welcome (if not encouraged). As a friend lovingly pointed out to me, however, a mammogram “is a different form of self-love.” Knowing she was right, I put my big girl pants on and made the appointment.
I sat and waited in the room with old copies of Southern Living. Each time the door opened, I both hoped that they would and wouldn’t call my name, anxious to get this over with, yet completely open to postponing it for awhile. It was soon enough my turn, and I abandoned Facebook on my phone for the material waiting for me in the next room – this one much smaller and colder due to the fact that I was now wearing a mini cape-like cloth with a single snap and no arm holes. The gown’s faded pink and blue flowers did little to brighten a room that was decorated with radiology images of breast tissue and a sign on the wall that reads, We Compress Because We Care. I thumbed through the issue of National Geographic on the bench, not really interested in the fact that our coastal lines are changing, but trying to pass the time by admiring photographic artistry. I didn’t have to wait long.
The exam itself isn’t that bad – that is, once I got over the feeling of being squeezed at unnatural angles. Because I was a first-timer, all members of the office staff were particularly sensitive and thoughtful when guiding me along. The intake nurse actually clapped her hands enthusiastically and suggested that confetti drop from the ceiling to commemorate first-time mammograms. Damn straight, I thought. Colorful confetti would be nice. Or maybe a hug and “go get ‘em.”
When the technician started to carefully explain what would happen when the machine started to lower, I cut her off. “I know,” I interrupted. “You compress because you care.” She smiled and patted me on the arm. “Exactly.” Less than ten minutes later, I was staring at the same National Geographic issue with even less interest in changing coastal lines. The radiology images of breast tissue still stared back and I wondered how many eyes had examined these images waiting patiently for their results, some of which ended up being alarming or downright frightening. I decided then and there that I would accompany all friends to future mammograms. No more back issues of Southern Living — I will show them photos of celebrities without makeup, keep watch over their purses, supply large lattes, and hold their hands if they need to give me a squeeze while getting squeezed. I’ll call it a mammogram entourage because, let’s face it, girlfriends are the only ones who make us feel like rock stars.
At the end of the figurative day (less than an hour for the entire experience), I was handed a small piece of paper and told that all is well. I need to know my baseline because knowledge is power and there’s too much to live for to hide – specifically, two little boys who need me and all of my crazy mom contributions to their daily lives. It’s time to be a big girl. True, a facial would have been more fun, but that’s for another time. In hindsight, this mammogram was the best way to start my day. Self-love in its truest form.
