I had to get a mammogram the other day, and, guys, it wasn’t nearly as fun as it sounds like it would be. I remember being 8-years-old and awestruck at my 13-year-old baby sitter Tricia, knowing I’d never be lucky enough to get to her age and wear an actual adult bra before Jesus came back and ruined all the fun. But here I was at 44, groggy-eyed, wearing a cape and getting my grown-up parts manhandled by Olga the lab technician.
I’m not kidding. Her name was Olga, she was “Svedish” and I hopped to it as she manhandled my lady parts. She was just doing her job – I get it, but the whole process is ignominious from start to finish.
First: the attire: Pancho and Lefty (old joke that my dear college friends will recall; I’m not sure that’s to my credit) are used to being discreetly uplifted and proudly encouraged via underwire on most days. During a mammogram, they are left to fend for themselves under a well-washed, antiseptic cape, and let me tell you, they are not quite sure what to make of it, having not been allowed to Swing Low, Sweet Chariot in over 3 decades. #problemsoftherichlyblessed
Second: the other day I bought a new pillow for my bed – a really poufy one – and it was a chore stuffing it into my pillow case. That was not unlike Olga that morning, stuffing me into the machine: poking, prodding and manipulating the girls like pizza dough; lifting and hefting my “mass” onto a waffle iron. I struggle to remember why I’m doing this…cancer, right? I’m trying to avoid cancer? When pretty much all seems well?
Third: I regret at that point that I don’t have detachable parts that can be unhooked and loaded into the mammogram machine so I don’t have to stand in this posture that resembles the WORST version of Twister that I’ve ever attempted. I now have strained trapezoids from this exercise.
Olga punches a button, and then PAIN. A fair amount of pain. My mother told me once that a mammogram was not unlike a tractor trailer rolling over my girly bits and then reversing for good measure. I don’t find her description too far off the mark.
Back in the dressing room that has piped in some soothing new age music, I finally relax and claim my body. There are marks. I feel like I’m walking away with war wounds. It’s a weird feeling, having “parts” of myself examined independently of the whole and then more or less returned to me, stricken and traumatized, but I survived, ya’ll. It’s my second mammogram, and the gals are fine. I gave Olga 5 stars in the exit interview they had me complete on my way out.
