The Mammogram

Yesterday, I went for my first Mammogram. I had 'put it off' for over a year now. I was simply afraid. The apprehension covered me like fog on a south Arkansas spring morning. After the typical rush to school - I arrived at the lab 30 minutes early. There was a line down the hall and every chair was occupied. The laboratory is in the basement of an old building, and as a designer, I know that it is over capacity. The warm carbon dioxide leaves me almost breathless, as I quickly exit the room to gasp for air on the street. At 9:30, I reluctantly walk down to the registration desk to give them my name. After a few moments of waiting, I am called to a little 2'X2' curtained cubicle to undress and gown. I wait to be called. After only a few moments that seem extraordinarily long, I am ushered down a dark corridor to a room with a huge gray machine. It has dim pink metal accents, but they are not comforting. The technician asks me to sit in a chair across the room. She stands approximately 12 feet away and quizzes my about my personal and family history. The personal history is brief, but the family history is a dissertation. After its completion, I am asked to stand in front of the machine, and align myself to a plastic tablet with center-line marks. My sister refers to this machine as the 'booby squishing' machine and has assured my that with my generous DDs that it won't be painful. I am docile as the technician holds my right breast, aligns it and places it on the tablet. She reaches for some soft of adjusting device and the breast is squeezed between two plates. The top plate is transparent. I am not thrilled that I can see my breast being squeezed and flattened like a hamburger patty being readied for a summertime grill. The uncomfortable 'factor' is more from the stretching of the skin and the pulling of the tissue. It is slightly painful, but the experience is devoid of dignity. I imagine that if there is a medical test that requires a man's penis to be flattened like a roll of sugar cookie dough - it would be a short lived medical device. Yet, here I am standing in a cold, clinical room with my breasts trapped in the booby squashing device - just as my fellow females have for decades. I think of Ellen Kay, my cousin, battling breast cancer - who has a cheerful optimism like sunshine. I think of her mother, Ernestine, who lost her battle to breast cancer so long ago. I think of my Grandmother, who was diagnosed early on and survived. I think of my cousin, Cecile, who's breast cancer was discovered in stage 4. Her body was overcome with tumors. I think of my vivacious sister, Pam, who's doctor just reported her mammogram as abnormal. She awaits an ultrasound. I am diminished. And I wait.