Jackie Wells-Fauth
Before I begin, I should give the following disclaimer: I recognize how important medical tests and exams are. There is so much that the medical community can do for us and help us to solve using their potions and pills and machines and tests. That having been said, I feel years of being x-rayed, ultra-sounded, run through the MRI, having endured multiple thyroid biopsies and the ever-enjoyable colonoscopy, I have a right to try and find the humor somewhere.
So as grateful as I am for modern science, I’m here to tell you that the little blue box that allows you to screen for colon cancer “your way” is misrepresenting things and the yearly mammogram for women is really no picnic, either!
I was thinking about the mammogram specifically during my yearly screening this last week. For the men in the reading audience, I realize the word mammogram makes you a little squeamish and that is too bad; maybe this is the week you don’t read this article to the end. For the brave men and the women, however, I believe I have something worth sharing.
The mammogram has always freaked me out. The first one I ever had was the baseline and they did so many views, re-takes and follow-ups that I was pretty much convinced I was just going to die right there. The trauma of that one has stayed with me, so I admit, I drag my feet and try everything to put it off—don’t ask me why; I know it must be done.
When they finally get me dragged in there, it is in some ways even worse, because when it’s over, I have to wait for that phone call. You know the one. “Yes, this is the clinic, and we have the results of your mammogram…” I don’t want those preliminaries. In fact, if they could arrange for a phone ringtone that was like an “All-clear” button, that would put me out of my misery immediately. However, I realize that there is a certain professional protocol, so I just have to be happy if at some point, they say everything’s normal.
All of these feelings were present when I reported for this year’s mammogram. I took my book along as usual, because I have heard that anxiety is handled better if you have something to read while you wait. I have never read a book while waiting for a mammogram that I did not have to re-read later, but it is something to hold in my hands, so I look reasonably calm.
I knew it was going to be different when I didn’t have to wait at all and the technician doing the mammogram led me into her exam room where I discovered calm, soothing lights and party music playing. You can’t get too wound up with a girl who is playing party music in the mammogram room.
A friend told me recently that she is sure that the mammogram machine was concocted by a man, and she is probably right. They don’t look friendly at all. They look like a giant monster with a huge mouth ready to swallow you. Erma Bombeck once said that in order to prepare for a mammogram, a woman should slam her most delicate appendage repeatedly in a refrigerator door. I have never tried that, but I think of it often when I approach those machines.
I particularly hate that you have to stand there in a gown open down the front (every year I put it on backwards first, don’t ask me why) while the technician puts little stickies as markers for any moles, etc. These stickies are meant to cling, and they do. But this technician, as she was liberally putting them on, said, “I just got a new set of stickies. They are great.” Can’t argue with that kind of cheerfulness.
At last, we got to the actual mammogram. This fantastic technician announced, “Now, we are going to do what I like to call the “Mammo Mamba.” When I got done laughing, I discovered that she had a whole set of footsteps on the floor, showing me exactly where to stand and how to approach the mammo monster. Before I knew it, I had concentrated so much on where to put my feet in those dance moves, that the exam was pretty much over. Somehow, she made having the most delicate portions of my body awkwardly squashed, not quite so bad.
When I was ready to leave, she even gave me a prize for being so good. I got a string of gold, plastic beads. It didn’t occur to me until later that this was kind of like Mardi Gras: Women flash themselves and get bead necklaces. It didn’t matter, I was so happy to be done, that I even left the machine without calling it my usual bad names.
So, I got a good report, and I was happy about that. I really enjoyed the attitude and atmosphere set forth by that technician. The question remains: Now that I can do the Mammo Mamba, will these tests be better in the future? Not a chance!
dropsinthewell 