WARNING! THIS BLOG POST DEALS WITH MEDICAL MATTERS OF A VERY SENSITIVE NATURE. CHILDREN UNDER 16, AND SINGLE MEN IN GENERAL ARE NOT ENCOURAGED TO READ THIS POST. MARRIED MEN, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY CHECK IT OUT BECAUSE YOU MAY NEED TO KNOW SOME OF THE INFORMATION HERE.
THIS BLOG HAS, AND ALWAYS WILL, SERVE AS A PLACE WHERE THE INDIGNITIES AND FEARFUL SITUATIONS OF BEING A WOMAN ARE ADDRESSED AND MADE LESS SCARY...FOR WOMEN. THIS POST IS MEANT TO ENTERTAIN AND PROVIDE A LAUGH AT THE WRITER'S EXPENSE. THIS POST IN NO WAY IS MOCKING THE SERIOUSNESS OF BREAST CANCER OR BELITTLING THE SUFFERING OF THOSE WHO HAVE IT.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
We've had fun, right? Childbirth, gyno exams, mammograms, bra shopping. Nothing has been off limits. Which is why, this week, I knew that I could not sweep my latest experience under the rug. I had to share it with you, my dear readers, if for no other reason than our shared experiences will bring us together and hopefully, we can battle our fears with laughter.
Reminder: This story has a happy ending!
So, two weeks ago it was time, once again, for my annual mammogram. We women know this is just THE MOST FUN THING ever. Basically, for those of you who haven't had one, this is a medically mandated test every year where we strip down to our bare nothings from the waist up (always a great look for me, oh yeah!) and let a complete stranger assault our upper lady bits in the most rude and uncomfortable way. Like, taking one of your more sensitive body parts, stretching it to its breaking point, and then flattening it in a vice grip. All while being told to "NOT MOVE" and "DON'T BREATHE!"
Every. Single. Year.
And, for me, for the last couple years, it's been twice a year. Because, well, I'm a winner. I've won a trip to the mammo machine every six months because my upper lady bits are, as they say in the medical business, all full of calcifications and whatnot.
This year was no different. I went in. Stripped to the waist. Put on the super comfy robe that I always threaten to steal (And after this I might just) and then wait for the cheerleader of the year to lead me to a darkened room where she and a giant machine will roughly and rudely get to second base with me.
Oh she was a chipper one, this woman (and by woman, I mean girl younger than my daughter), who manhandled my upper lady bits all while chatting and smiling with teeth that should be on a commercial for teeth whitening. I'm not saying they were Ross Gellar teeth whitening level, but they were close. (If you get that joke, you get it, and you're laughing. If not, well, start watching "Friends." This blog will make a ton more sense in the long run.)
I asked her what I ask all the techs who do the mammograms. "How did you fall into this line of work? Did you wake up one morning and say, ' I think I'd like to make my living by stretching and squashing human mammary glands'?"
She laughed, she actually laughed, she was just that chipper. She told me no, and she told her story, which doesn't matter really except that it ended with, "I love doing my job because I can save a life, literally save a life, every single day."
Yeah, she was a lot. Like the most rah-rah cheerleader I've had in quite some time. She was sooooooooooooo perky and so all about how great it was to save a life one image at a time.
After she was done with the smashing and pulling, I put the robe back on and Cheerleader told me to go wait while the radiologist (at some other site...) read my scans.
So, I sat in the waiting room watching DIY TV (Why is this on every television in Doctor's offices these days? What, it is, I feel like crap, I have medical, tests, I need some kind of antibiotics, but oh look! hey, I could totally redo my kitchen cabinets just like that!) About five minutes later, Cheerleader came out, looking a tiny bit less cheery. But just a tiny bit.
"So, like, um the radiologist totally looked at your scans and they need a teeny bit more magnification on one of the pictures if that's cool?"
Okay, that's not what she said, but that's what it sounded like to me.
No biggie, I'm thinking. I've been down this road before. Couple years ago, Ms. Right needed a few extra pictures. I refer you back t0 my comments about having upper lady bits that are all full of calcification and whatnot. So we go back into the room. "It's Ms. Right, right?" I say, starting to slip my right arm out of the robe.
"No, it's actually the left."
(This is where I have to remind my readers and myself...this story has a happy ending!)
At this point I wasn't concerned. I figured this was just one more step into the indignity that is being a woman over the age of 50.
So we did more yanking, more smashing. And Cheerleader sent me back to the waiting area where, now, there was another woman dressed in her jeans and that robe just like me. This other woman was super chatty about how she works in a factory and was telling a female coworker that she had to go in for her annual boob smash before she realized a male coworker was there and overhearing her comments. And she laughed and laughed.
I laughed along because talking about mammograms in front of male coworkers is always hilarious. I guess.
A couple minutes later, Cheerleader was back in the waiting room, this time wearing a less than cheerleaderly face. "Can you come back here with me, please?" She asked, opening a completely different door.
Something symbolic about that.
She ushered me to an exam room and had me sit on a chair. Then she started dialing a land line phone. "The radiologist wants to talk to you," she said, trying, and failing, to keep that Pepsident smile on her face. She must've made half a dozen calls trying to reach the radiologist who, apparently, wanted to socialize with me. Not sure why it took so many calls since Cheerleader had been on the phone with this person five minutes before. Personally, I would have kept Radiologist on hold while I went to get me...but that's me.
Finally, after several attempts, (and honestly, it must have been super difficult to keep dialing and not getting a human person all while keeping that wonder smile pasted on her face) Cheerleader raised a human on the phone, which she passed over to me.
I'll be honest. I really don't have a clear mammory (see what I did there...I made a funny!) of what the disembodied voice on the phone told me. Once you hear the word, "cancer" used in conjuction with your name, everything else becomes a blur of noise. I know she talked about cells and calcifications and groupings, and then she said something about a biopsy and the hospital would be in touch. I know I didn't say anything other than, "yes. yes. yes. yes." Well, except when she asked if I had any other questions, I said, "no."
Then she hung up and I handed the phone to Cheerleader who, to her credit, had turned down the wattage on the smile and the volume on her chirp voice a couple ticks. However, sympathy wasn't a natural fit for her, and I wound up saying something cheerful and comforting so she wouldn't feel bad. "Oh well, you have just an awesome day!" was her last word to me as I returned to the waiting area, which was now empty, and then to the changing area.
Funny. Left didn't look a bit different than it did when I got dressed that morning.
I got home and told Hubby, who is a prince in all matters and who hugged me hard. This, like everything else in our marriage, was a challenge, a bump in the boob, so to speak (another funny!), and we would, with prayer, get through it. About an hour later, I had an appointment scheduled for a biopsy.
That's a big word. Biopsy.
In the ten days between the mammogram and the biopsy, I did what people do. I worked. I went to visit a friend. I made dinner. I did laundry. I washed the dishes and clipped my nails.
I also looked at myself in the mirror, wondering what I'd look like without one or both upper lady bits.
Oh, and I told no one. Hubby and I didn't even talk about it much, and we certainly didn't use the word "biopsy."
The day of the big test arrived. I had to leave work early, something that wasn't a big deal. I'm a woman in my 50's. My boss is used to me having doctor's appointments, so I didn't have to elaborate.
Hubby, my prince, took a half day and drove with me to the clinic, a couple miles from our house. I've had a number of female tests done at this place, and I'll tell you, it's not what you'd call a man-friendly waiting room. But, he's a trooper. He brought a book. of course, the book had a VERY unfortunate title.
Honestly, I can't make stuff like this up.
So, he was settled in with his book and they called me in for a conference. Well, first they asked me to, once again, take everything off above the waist and put on a robe. (One of these days I'm going to come home with one of those robes stuff in my purse. They are so comfy. they make me look like a pregnant manatee wrapped in waffles, but they're comfy.
So now, at a very decided disadvantage clothing-wise, it was time to meet the doctor.
For those of you who have never had this done, get ready for a ride. I mean it.
The first thing they do, once they've stripped you away from your carefully chosen wardrobe, is sit you in a small office with a nurse who lights up a picture of your mammogram.
Death Star. (Also, not mine.)
SAME THING!
The nurse explains why I'm sitting there, freezing and flop sweating simultaneously. She points out the little conclave of calcification. She explains what the concerns are.
Then the doctor comes in. Now, okay, this name is an alias, Doctor Devin Richards, but the initials are the same. I know this because he wrote his initials on Left in purple marker and commented how he had "unfortunate initials for a doctor." (DR made a funny!)
Then DR explains what he's going to do with this needle and that poky thing and a clip he's going to pop into Left as a marker for future explorers of this territory. he also tells me not to worry. This clip marker thing won't be a problem in airport security.
Right. Because that's what this world traveler who hasn't been outside of Wisconsin since July is worried about.
AT this point, DR leaves the room to go, prepare for the procedure. What's he got to prepare for? Does he need to study up on something? What doesn't he know? Do I really want someone who is NOT prepared at this point sticking several poky things into Left to draw out calcifications? It's that just calicium? Isn't calcium good for me?
All of these thoughts are running through my head as the nurse ushers me to the room with the table.
Now, I don't know exactly what I expected when they told me there would be a table with a hole in it. Maybe like a massage table, but instead of the hole being right there by the face, it was several inches down. You know, right about boob height. But still, a flat table.
Instead, I got this: 
Now what you probably can't appreciate from this picture at this the middle of this table is shaped sort of like a funnel. Which means, while lying on my stomach, my legs would 1) be dangling about 3 feet beyond the end of the table and 2) be raised upwards. Basically I'd be in a soft V shape.
But the fun positioning doesn't end there. Note the step stool. Yes, I was required to hoist my girth up a couple steps and the crawl onto the table to position myself just right over the hole and then extend my legs out into mid air.
And I was every bit as graceful and lovely getting into that position as you think I would have been.
THEN, the nurse says to me, "Now, put your left arm flat against your side. And extend your right arm over your head."
This is a joke, right?
here's my checklist:
Legs stretched out in mid air, unsupported from the knee down.
Left dangling through the hole.
Left arm at my side. Right arm over my head.
Hair completely covering the one eye that isn't crushed against the rubber "pillow" they jammed under my head so that my neck was bent at a very comfortable 49 degree angle.
And then the nurse says, "I'm going to raise the table now."
Worst...amusement...ride...ever.
"Would you like a warm blanket? A cooling compress on your head? A well sugared cup of tea?"
Okay, that last one is a joke. I've been watching A LOT of "Call the Midwife" lately.
The nurse popped a warm blanket on me, mostly to absorb the flop sweat, I'm sure. And then DR enters the room. I mean, I can't see him because I'm facing the other way, my left eye is crushed closed against the table and my right eye is full of hair. But I hear him come in and tell me he's going to numb the area.
It's at this point I wonder if this is how dairy cows feel when they're being attached to a milk machine. At least they aren't forced to lie in the world's most uncomfortable position, but still. I can't get the image out of my head.
I wonder if he's sitting on a traditional milk maid's stool. You know, a three legged one?
After numbing the area with what I assume is the world's longest and hottest needle. (I'm saying it stung like a beast.) BR flicks me a couple times (or some other test to see if I'm numb.) Then he inserts his light saber into Left a few times. I hear all manner of mechanical battle sounds as he retrieves tissue and plants his flag...I mean inserts the marker clip.
The nurse, meanwhile, under the guise of rubbing my back in a comforting manner, is actually pushing me downward into a deeper V position. That hurts, you know, because I'm over 50, overweight, and have a lot A LOT of lower back pain. So yeah, pushing my body further into this table funnel...not fun.
DR, ready to get those calcifications!
This is an artist's rendering of me, in my robe, standing in front of my mammogram image. Don't I look great?
And then, with a final zap, it was over. The nurse stopped pushing on my back and took off the warm blanket. They lowered the table, and I crawled off of it, even more gracefully than I'd gotten on because now I was trying to unbend from all different directions.
They got me off the table, and sent me back to get dressed. After a few minutes, the nurse popped in to give me some post procedure instructions (none of which I heard or followed) and then told me they'd call me as soon as they had results, probably the next day. She cautioned me NOT to check my Ichart because I'd get the results as soon as they did and I might freak out reading the results and not understanding them.
Oh, honey. I just did a yoga pose with Left stuck in a hole for the last fifteen minutes. We are well beyond freaking out at this point.
That night I went home. I was a little sore, and a lot tired. Peaches came over for dinner. Skippy was there and Skippy's GF, who will are going to call Ginger for now, was too. Hubby and I agreed not to say anything until we had the results, so we didn't tell the kids anything that night.
Okay, I did promise you a happy ending, and here it is. The next morning the nurse called me and gave me the all clear. I have to go in for another yank and squish with the Cheerleader in 6 months, but other than that, everything is FINE!
And hopefully, by making light of some of this, I've made the whole experience of a biopsy a little less horrible. At the very least, my friends, understand that it's pretty vital to get your mamms ogrammed every year. It's dumb, and annoying, and most of the time you're going to want to slap the super chipper tech. But do it. Get it done. And if you need someone to hold your hand, give me a call!
Oh, and one other thing: We told the kids, but...,my mom doesn't know about this and if you could, you know, NOT tell her, that would be REALLY great. I'm not quite ready to deal with her crying. I mean, we just got passed Christmas.
Thanks, I really appreciate it!
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