The Big Squeeze

I promised myself, and some other folks that I would write this post. You see, in a few weeks, I'll be turning 37. This, believe it or not, is a bit of a milestone for women. For it falls neatly between 35 and the big 4-0. It is also the time, when the medical industry begins to gear you up for middle age. And so, it came to pass, that in the early days of September, I dids't go forth unto the Imaging Center, and have my very fist mammogram.

It started as a normal doctor visit. Walk in, tell the half-interested person behind the counter who I am and, more importantly, who my insurance carrier is. Fill out paperwork, then sit down with a magazine and wait. And wait. And wait. Just when it seemed certain that the appointment would indeed make me late for work, wonder of wonders they called my name.

So back I went into a smaller waiting room where I was presented with...more paperwork. The nurse pointed me in the direction of the changing room and instructed me to remove the upper clothing and put on a gown so that it opens in the front. Not unreasonable, except that the gown in question had only one usable tie and it was at the very top. Not exactly modest, folks.

So, the nurse comes for me and down the bizarrely decorated hallway I go, clutching my gown and staring about, and am led into the room where sits: (cue scary music) THE MACHINE.

I've heard stories. In fact, I think that there is an unspoken tradition amongst women that states that when describing such things as childbirth, yearly "well woman" exams, and mammograms to another, younger woman who has not experienced these things, we must do everything in our power to scare the bejeezus out of her. Perhaps it is in our nature to prepare one another for the worst, or just out and out cruelty. At any rate, the stories I had heard about this procedure ran the gamut from "excrutiating" to "extremely uncomfortable", with few details in between. Here, is what actually happened.

First off, let me point out that, despite the fact that the nurse (female, thankfully) is quite literally handling me, and is REQUIRED to stare directly at the exposed breast (which can burn the retinas of any unprotected male eye, btw) every attempt is made to ensure the patient's modesty. The gown was never fully removed, only one side at a time. Sweet, really. Absurd, but sweet.

We got straight down to business. I was informed that there would be a total of four images taken, two for each breast. First, the right breast. So, off comes the right side of the gown as I step up to The Machine. The nurse (who's name escapes me, oddly enough) takes hold of my breast, pulls it straight out and places it on the padded surface of The Machine (the padding is for my warmth and comfort by the way -- yeah, right). After directing me in arm and foot placement, she goes around to the control pad and lowers the clear, upper plastic plate. This is just a rectangular shaped piece of clear plastic, totally unremarkable except for the fact that it now has me trapped in a most peculiar fashion. I'm a tad nervous as the squeezing begins.

Just as I was beginning to steel myself for the worst, it stopped. The nurse says, "Are you okay?"

I reject the obvious smart-ass reply and settle for "yes".

"Okay," she says, "now hold your breath." No problem, except for the fact that I had already been holding my breath in anticipation of further squeezing.

She pushes the button and The Machine emits a series of very 1960s bad science fiction show noises, and suddenly it is over. I gasp for air as The Machine lets go.

Repeat the process for the left breast, then tilt The Machine and repeat for the lypmh nodes.

All in all, my personal experience ranked only Extremely Uncomfortable, but it was on the border. Now, to the reader who has never seen me in person, I should point out that I am amply endowed (They're real and they are specTACular!). For a woman of lesser endowments, I'm thinking in the A-B cup size range, this procedure could be extremely tricky, as The Machine must have something to grab on to. To those women I say: You have my sympathy.

So, the twins got a clean bill of health, and now my doctor has a Baseline to compare future scans. Fortunately, I have another three years before this becomes a yearly event.