Chandler: I don't think you can make that statement until you've been kicked in an area God only meant to be treated nicely.
~ Friends, "The One Where Ross and Rachel Take a Break"
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I had my very first mammogram today, and I can't stop laughing.
I realize this is quite likely not a normal reaction to this process, so I will try to explain.
When I visited my OB/GYN for my annual checkup in January, he looked at my chart and said, "You're turning 40 this year? It's time for your first mammogram."
My immediate sarcastic mental reaction was, "Well, yay! More fun for me! Forty keeps getting better and better. Whoo-hoo!" Outwardly, I just smiled the little Noh smile I use when I'm trying to keep that inner voice from coming out of my mouth and into situations where it isn't appropriate.
Since it was my very first appointment, my doctor's office booked it for me. As with everything from kindergartens to hair dressers, there is a "right" place or doctor that everyone wants to belong to, and so getting in is tricky. I was sent a time, I filled out my sub paperwork accordingly, and I showed up this morning.
I was a little nervous as I think most people are when they're having anything new done at a hospital. I had talked about the experience with my mother, so I had some idea about what was coming. I couldn't get too stressed out about it, however, because of all the other far more invasive and painful procedures I've endured. I was pretty sure there would be no needle, speculum, or heavy pain medication involved in what was ahead of me this time.
My radiologist was wonderful. She explained everything to me in advance and made me feel as comfortable as any person in a paper gown open up the back can feel.
Next, I was bestickered. To make sure certain reference points were clear for the doctor who would read the results, small adhesive markers were applied to me. I kept thinking, "These things could at least be sparkly or have a Wonder Woman insignia on them or something." I stepped up to the large ecru machine and the fun began.
Adjustments had to be made to the machine itself. For those of you who don't know me IRL, I am absurdly tall. Most of the time, I don't notice this at all. I've never been short, so it's just normal life for me. Sometimes, though, the reality of my height sneaks up on me in unexpected ways. Today was one of them. To be on the right level to scan the area in question, the machine had to be raised probably 18" from where it was previously. The radiologist was petite. This meant that once the machine was in the right position, she had to stand on her toes to get everything arranged properly.
Getting all the angles to make sure a full scan was completed involved having to tilt the scanner and reach around it in different ways.The process of having a mammogram struck me a little like getting a mugshot always seems to be in police shows, "Turn to your right. Turn to your left. Face the front." While I wasn't holding a placard with my name and id number in front of me, I had to do a bit of moving to make sure a comprehensive baseline of my breast tissue could be established. As I was standing there with my cheek pressed against the machine, my arm wrapped around the side, eyes focused on its Fuji logo and breath held to prevent movement that might spoil the exposure, I couldn't help but think to myself, "I bet there is no test any man has to go through where they repeatedly have to hug a piece of medical equipment and then have delicate portions of their anatomy mashed flat."
The whole thing was much less painful than I had feared and fairly brief, too, as medical moments go. I was putting my t-shirt back on and walking through the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital's imaging center much more quickly that I had expected. I thanked my radiologist for an experience that was, if not exactly something I want to do on a daily basis, actually as comforting and well done as any such moment in life can be. Then it was out into the sunshine of a blooming spring morning and back into my car to drive home.
As I hit the interstate, I started laughing. It hurt. Portions of my body that were, as Chandler says above, only intended by God to be treated nicely had been squeezed and compressed between two hard layers, after all. I came back to the thought I'd had earlier about the differences in health care issues for men and women. I wonder if there is anything men go through every year that even compares. I don't know who'd I'd ask, but I'm curious. Through the "compressions," the held breaths, the gentle whirring of the machine in its processes, all I had been able to think of was that this is what it means to be a mature woman. We find ourselves in moments of vulnerability, discomfort, and absurdity.
It's not a complaint exactly. I am fairly sure that the twin processes women go through to ensure the various portions of their reproductive system are not trying to kill them, as unfun as these examinations are, actually create in us a kind of perspective. Whether our feet are up in stirrups or we're hugging the mammogram scanner, maybe these moments center us and strip away trivialities. They make us own these physical incarnations of ourselves whether we are comfortable with them or not, whether we've been taking good care of them or not, whether we find them a source for rejoicing, a source of dread, or a curious mixture in between. We have to be totally honest about ourselves and with whatever healthcare provided is present, at least until we can put our clothing back on, pass through the heavy doors that always seem to separate the land of the waiting room from the land of the procedure, and re-enter whatever our lives outside that place may be.
I guess I could be sad about being older, about being of an age where routine screenings become required. Instead, I found laughter in that radiology room, a sense of gratitude that issues from my past were settled now, a sense of comfort that I have medical professionals looking after me who will help me take care of any new ones that arise.
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