Whamma Damma Mammogramma
One of the delights of turning 40, I recently learned, is that is the magical age when those in the medical profession become interested in your boobs. VERY interested in your boobs.
I'd been dreading today since I made my appointment for my first ever mammogram (or just "mam" as the x-ray tech affectionally called it) sometime last August. I'd been putting it off since the first time my doctor brought it up earlier this year. Succumbing to a boob-squishing machine just didn't sound all that appealing. Yet, I knew it needed to be done.
Upon making the appointment, I was instructed to arrive free of perfume, powder or deoderant. I didn't ask why, though, as I figured they had good reasons for such requests. A thought occurred to me and I paused a moment before venturing to ask the woman at the appointment counter about it.
"This might seem like an odd question," I started in, "but I have a pierced nipple and would like to know if I'll need to remove my jewelry for the mammogram" (I wasn't yet aquainted with its nickname).
The woman making my appointment, thankfully, did not seem the least bit fazed by this question and informed me that she was pretty sure I could leave it in. I hoped that she was correct, as I'd much prefer to conduct such a maneuver in the privacy of my own home, rather than in a freezing cold examining room with an impatient x-ray tech standing by tapping her fingers on the x-ray machine while I fumble with the captive bead in the middle of the ring with my trembly hands and hoping it doesn't snap out and fly across the room. I really wanted to know for certain that this would not be an issue.
I received a phone call the day before my appointment reminding me not to wear perfume, powder or deoderant. I thanked the gentleman who called and opted not to follow up with him regarding my nipple piercing.
But after I hung up the phone with him, I began to feel panicky. Not about the nipple piercing, but about the fact that my soaps and hair products are all scented. Suddenly, I found that I did care why they insisted that I avoid perfume, powder or deoderant. I tried to call back, but the line was busy.
I stopped at the Kaiser clinic on my way to work and swung by the radiology department to ask them about scented bath and hair products. The woman sitting on the other side of the window was on a telephone call and her tone of voice and facial expression told me that she was well-acquainted with the caller on the other end. Without putting the caller on hold or covering the receiver with her hand, she asks if she can help me. I tell her that I can wait for her to finish with her caller, but she tells me to go ahead. Now, supposedly, Kaiser is concerned with patient confidentiality and this woman has no idea what I'm about to ask her, yet she deems it acceptable for her acquaintance on the other line to be privvy to my question. I debated leaving or insisting she put the caller on hold, simply out of principle, but opted against since my question wasn't that private.
When I asked her about the soap and such, she looked at me as though I'd asked a stupid question and informed me that, of course it's no problem to bathe with scented bath products prior to my appointment. Duh.
Guess I didn't have to worry about that anymore.
No way in hell I was going to ask Ms. Confidentiality-be-damned about the ole nipple piercing, so I left her to her phone call and continued on my way to work.
When I showed up for my appointment earlier today, free of perfume/powder/deoderant, it's safe to say that I was a tad bit nervous and anxious. I'd heard from other, already mammogrammed, women that one's breast is placed in a machine and then flattened like a pancake. Suddenly I hated pancakes and wished for my breasts to resemble grapefruits if they were going to resemble a breakfast item. I was given a sticker to place on the back of my Kaiser cared and shown to the waiting area.
When my name was called, another, elderly, woman was called at the same time. Who knew that mammograms were done as cattle calls? The other woman and I were both shown to separate dressing rooms, side-by-side, that were smaller than most public restroom stalls. The nurse who ushered us in instructed, "shirts and bras off, gowns facing forward."
Alrighty, then. I closed the curtain to my tres petite dressing room and found myself face to face with a sign which read, "You may be asked to remove your jewelry."
Lovely. The sign did not specify what kind of jewelry, but if they're looking at the boobs, it only stands to reason that what they are referring to here is boob jewelry, right?
I redress, as instructed, with the frumpy hospital gown opened to the front. Am I supposed to tie the strings together or just leave it open? Feeling somewhat chilly, I wrap the garment around my body, kimono-style. My name is then called and the tech asks me if this is my first "mam." I was impressed that she and the mammogram were so well acquainted that they had cutesy nicknames for one another. I admitted to being a newbie and waited for further instruction.
Suffice to say, even though the boob-squishing machine bore an uncanny resemblance to the devices at the junkyard that squish cars into metal cubes with it's flat panels coming together with great force, the procedure really wasn't painful as much as it was uncomfortable and awkward. Believe me, I've been around the block a time or two and this tech had me in positions I'd never been in before! As for the piercing? Let's just say that the tech had been around the block a time or two, as well.
And furthermore, let the record show that the boob-squishing machine renders nothing even remotely resembling a pancake! A thick and juicy hamburger, maybe...
I feel as though I'm now on the other side of a rite of passage of sorts. I'm now qualified to sit around and quaff martinis while chatting up other women about our "mams."
