The Mammogram - Not for the Squeamish

The receptionist said she had to update my information. Among the questions was "Do you have a choice of religion?" to which I answered, "No." Odd question in the radiology department; do many people die in the x-ray room in need of last rites or something? I answered questions about work and home and names and dates and then waited for my annual mammogram like the dutiful woman that I am. Everyone is overtly nice and obviously courteous; they want to make their mammography patients feel at ease before they squeeze their breasts in a vise. I went through the door and down the corridor, and Mary, the technician, if that is the correct title, asked me more questions about menopause and menstruation, giving birth and breast cancer history. I never remember the date of my last period. You'd think after putting up with it for 37 years, I'd know when it occurs.

I went into the dressing room, removed my shirt and bra (under which I was not to have put on any deodorant because in addition to the pain, I should stink too), and donned the periwinkle blue robe with white trim, open in the front. Mary called for me to go on in, and I walked toward the "machine" in the middle of the small, dark room. It appeared to rise up higher as I walked in, eventually looming over me with its plates open. Mary reminded me that she had also done my last mammogram. I nodded and smiled. I remembered her from last year; she continued talking during the exam to keep my mind on things other than my breast flattening more than I thought possible as I thought that the last squeeze might really be the last one; no, one more. This time was the same. She told me about her pregnancy with her twins and how they were in some kind of breech position which meant that they were kicking each other in the head. She had had a Cesarean of course, but the babies had been healthy and of decent weight. She said that her now adult children were in transition now, preventing her and her husband from buying a condo in Hollywood, Florida, where she grew up and where she would like to retire. I stood listening with my most sensitive appendage held in the grip of a machine from which I would not know how to extricate myself if Mary happened to faint or have a heart attack in the middle of my mammogram.

Three pictures of each breast; the first is not so bad. The second felt as if my nipple was ripping slowly from my body, and although I had said that I claimed no religion, I distinctly (and probably louder than I thought) took a deity's name in vain. I apologized; Mary was nonplussed and said, "curse away, it will be over soon." The third position was a relief from the second in that the lightning bolts of pain had stopped. The entire procedure takes maybe ten minutes. And yes, they feel like really long minutes.

Now it's done, and I can wait another year to go back where Mary (if she hasn't moved to Florida by then) will talk to me again about the onset of menses or whether I've gone through menopause yet. She will tell me that I am brave and that the pictures look fine, and I'll smile as I walk out, my boobs still throbbing a little.