A week after receiving my annual mammogram, I receive a phone call from someone who I think identified herself as a Breast Coordinator (really? what kind of coordination do they need?) saying that I need to come back in for further testing. There is an “architectural distortion” and additional films are needed to determine if an ultrasound and/or biopsy may be necessary.
Sitting in the waiting room full of women, I can’t help but wonder what their stories are. Who is here for just the annual exam; who is here for additional testing; who is here for more serious diagnostics; who is here for follow-ups after surviving breast cancer; who is here because their treatment is failing? They are all different sizes, shapes, ages, backgrounds. One woman is dressed in a business suit, another in poly stretch pants from Wal-Mart. It doesn’t matter. Naked, we’re all the same. Cancer doesn’t discriminate.
My dear mother-in-law just finished radiation treatments for stage 1 breast cancer yesterday. She asked how my annual mammo went and I never responded. I couldn’t dare worry her with something so painfully familiar to her right now. Fingers crossed that it’s nothing and I can tell her “Oh, everything’s just fine” the next time we talk.
The technician shows me the film from last time – the spot is obvious even to my untrained eye. “It could just be dense tissue. We’ll need to get more images, moving and manipulating the tissue flatter for a clearer picture.” Flatter? Really? She twists and rolls my breast like she’s kneading pizza dough. I try not to make eye contact with her. I don’t even know her name. Again, with the machine squeezing and squeezing and squeezing my breast until I can hardly breathe. Click. Click.
Clearly, she doesn’t like what she sees and she pulls out a super duper magnifiying attachment for the machine. No comfy pads on this one. It simply feels like she’s slamming my tit between two books – not pleasant. “I’m sorry – I know this isn’t comfortable,” she empathizes. What a crappy job she has. With the new digital technology, we can instantly see the images. I peek behind her station and see the spot again. Shit.
She seats me in the aforementioned fake spa area and says she’ll show the films to the Doctor to determine if we need to do an ultrasound. I sit. I wait. I think. I start to panic, but O magazine diverts my attention just enough. Soon after, another woman is seated next to me – lucky girl. I offer her a chocolate. She accepts. She has darker skin and speaks with an accent. Very lovely. She says “I hope everything will be OK for both of us.” The technician calls my name and I leave the oasis, squeezing my new friend’s arm and wishing her well.
I am ushered to the technician’s ultrasound room. I always loved getting ultrasounds. I think it’s brilliant that they can look inside your body and your organs and determine good things – the size and sex of a baby – and bad – the location of a tumor. Again, I see something on the screen and, to my own surprise, blurt out “What is that?!” “Just normal breast tissue” comes the beauteous response!
The Doctor comes in after reviewing the ultrasound and confirms that everything is, in fact, just fine. An apology for putting me through the wringer from the Doc, a sigh of relief and a commitment to come annually from me. I get dressed and marvel at how it’s suddenly all over, and with a very happy ending. As I leave the office, I walk past the other faces in the waiting room. I look at them, and they look at me. We’re all thinking the same thing – leave my tits alone.
Ladies – please please please do your monthly self-exam and get your annual mammogram. Early detection saves lives.
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