The Things I'll Do for a Little Peace and Quiet

This morning, I was able to experience once again the joy that is the mammogram. Because of family history--my mother had breast cancer twice, resulting in a double mastectomy--my doctor recommended that I get a baseline mammogram now instead of waiting until I turned 40. There was an abnormality, most likely just an area of denser tissue, but the radiologist recommended that I come back in six months to have it rechecked. Today was the day.

I love it that they tell you not to move or breathe: Your breast is crushed between the plates. The edge of the machine is rammed into your armpit. You're contorted into a position you haven't tried since college. And you're vaguely aware that someone had the foresight to roll the machine out of the freezer a whole two minutes before you walked into the room. So breathing and moving are the not activities you're going to want to engage in, knowing that the whole process would just have to be repeated.

I wasn't worried about the result of the exam (I know, very strange for a recovering hypochondriac) but it's not something any woman looks forward to. Especially those of us who were less blessed with the body part in question. But there I was, bright and early, sitting half-dressed in the exam room, trying not to be annoyed that the technician kept interrupting the Jon Stewart interview in Oprah. It's not like I can tell her to go watch Noggin for half an hour.

At the start of the exam, she (the tech, not Oprah) told me that they would only be taking two photos. When she came back to do two more, my mood tilted from annoyance to a teesny bit worried. Right in the middle of Jon and Tracey's first date, the tech returned to say that everything looked fine but that they were going to do a sonogram just to be sure. Now I was more intrigued than worried; everyone has seen lots of breasts, but it's not every day you get to see the inside. Well, unless that's your job, of course. It's actually quite beautiful, sort of a landscape with an ocean and rivers and beaches. And no tumors! Just glandular tissue, as expected.

While the pictures were printing and the radiologist was being consulted, I was told to "Just relax. Don't get up, as the radiologist will want to recheck this before you leave." That was the easily the best part of the morning. There I was, all alone in a dimly lit room, listening to nothing but soft music and the faint hum of the machines. "Please," I said as the tech left, "Tell the Doctor to take her time. I'm in no hurry."


Note to Self: Next time remember the Tylenol.