By Shannon Magsam
As soon as I got in the room with the boob-squashing machine, the delay tactics began. Along with that cute little gown that was really the size of a dickie (so I might as well have gone topless), I put on my journalism hat and asked all kinds of questions about the amount of radiation shooting from the machine, whether there had been any studies on mammograms actually initiating cancer and so on.
Sweat started to form under my arms that were devoid of deodorant (you can’t wear deodorant or powder to a mammogram since the small, white flecks can apparently shows up on the scan as potential calcium deposits, a red flag that there could be pre-cancerous changes in the breast).
Jackie, the radiologic technologist who was performing the mammogram, addressed each of my questions with patience and kindness. She was almost motherly, you might say. Which is why I finally stopped quizzing her in fire-rapid succession, took a deep breath, and revealed what was really going on with my chest (underneath the mammary glands, way down in my heart). “I think,” I began, “I think I’m just a little scared.” Suddenly, the tears started, but I managed to staunch the flow with a few hard blinks. “I think,” I continued, “I’m really worried about how I would handle it if I found out I really did have breast cancer. I don’t know if I really want to know.”
There, I’d said it. Was ignorance bliss? Jackie just shook her head up and down, in a way that indicated she knew exactly what I meant. Then she told me how smart I was being to get a baseline mammogram (recommended between ages 35 and 40) and how it would truly be better to know early on that I had breast cancer so my chances of beating it would be so much greater if I did. Mammograms can show changes in the breast that it might take several years for a woman or a doctor to feel. Then Jackie reminded me that I don’t have a history of breast cancer in my family and the tenderness I’d been feeling was most likely from too much caffeine or hormonal changes.
“Ready?” she asked tentatively, aware that I might just rip that dickie off any minute and flee the room bare-breasted. (In all honesty, my early man fight or flight impulse nearly had me up and out of the chair about five times in the waiting room.)
I took a deep breath and shook my head yes. Then I put on my proverbial big girl panties and put my boob in the vise. The first squish was straight up and down. Jackie got me positioned just right (“put your right hand up here, relax your shoulder, great”) and then cranked the vise down. Then she said to be as still as possible while she ran over to hit the x-ray button. She also needed a picture of my breasts from the side, which made me feel a little like a contortionist.
It really didn’t hurt like I thought it might, although I could imagine that it would if you were having lots of tenderness or pain. In fact, I thought the word “uncomfortable” described the sensation, with a pap smear rating much higher on the uncomfortable scale. A nurse friend who was having some pain before she went in for her first mammogram recently recommended taking a pain reliever before your appointment to help with the discomfort. It’s also good to avoid getting a mammogram a week or so before your period when you’re breasts are usually more tender — and you’re more prone to crying jags.
After we finished the second set of x-rays, Jackie let me see what was going on under the surface. I analyzed my breasts on the computer, but didn’t see anything weird. Of course, I’m no radiologist, but Jackie didn’t seem alarmed, which made me feel better.
I told her thanks for letting me ask so many questions and get a little weepy without putting on her stern, nurse hat. She said people often have strange reactions when they’re getting a mammogram, so she’s used to it. Some people laugh, she said. “They have this nervous energy inside and they have to get it out somehow.”
As we walked out of the room, Jackie said proudly, “You survived your first mammogram! Go do something fun now!”
I expected a sticker, but my only reward was to put on my own clothes and the deodorant I’d stashed in my purse. Jackie reminded me that since doctors had never seen my breast scans before and didn’t know what was normal for me – thus, the baseline mammogram – I might get called back in for a follow-up, most likely for an ultrasound.
A few days later, my husband brought in the mail and handed me a letter. It was from the breast center. Though I knew they probably wouldn’t issue bad news in a letter, my hands shook a little as I opened it.
One word stood out: “Normal.”
I felt lighter inside before thinking of all the women whose phone calls or letters did not include the word normal. Then I said a prayer for them and felt grateful for early detection technologies that can lead to early cures.
