Tuesday was my annual mammogram. I know, confusing since it’s not October when all my normal The Cancer-related activities happen. But because of a scare a late last fall, I went for a early check up in March, which then moved my annual boob smash to September. (And, yes, I mean boob in the singular. I only have one real one left, remember?)
The annual boob flattner always brings anxiety. While I’m 3 for 4 in clear mammograms since the first in October 2015, that one strikeout was a big mistake. Big. Huge.
And, let me tell you, they don’t make the process relaxing in the slightest. For those of you who haven’t been for the boob pancake yet, let me explain. They take you back into this little room where you strip from the waist up. That little room leads into the mammogram room, where the real magic happens. There are all sorts of arm positions, weird angles, and your face pressed up against the machine to make sure they get the correct view. Two hard plastic plates come down from the sky and squeeze the bejeezus out of your girls (or, in my case, girl) and take a picture. Then you rotate to another awkward position and do it again. It’s like, totally super fun. [Actually, this is the one time where having big boobs comes in handy … for those of us ladies who are well endowed, you can basically stand across the room and get those suckers in there. 🙂 ]
After a couple of no-so-cute modeling poses, you head back into the little room to wait, half-naked, while the radiologist takes a peek at the films. And on this particular visit, I waited. And waited. And waited. As you can imagine, as those minutes tick by, your mind starts visiting all sorts of fun places. And by fun I mean horrific. As in, it must be taking so long because they found something.
After about 15 minutes, the lovely nurse returned and didn’t have any news to calm my racing heart. Instead, she said they needed more pictures to make sure “we’re comparing apples to apples.” First of all, lady, it should probably be apple to apple since there’s only one. Second, who has ever compared my mammoth Lefty to an apple? Let’s at least go for a very large melon. Third, and most importantly, you need to do what?!?
While I’m all about retaking photos to get my best angles, THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR AS A CANCER PATIENT. My anxiety, which was hovering at about a 6 1/2 or 7 while I was waiting, skyrocketed to a 228. There was sweat. There was the holding back of tears. There was nausea. There was pleading to the universe. And there was an absolute fear of the worst.
After the second set of pictures, I endured another 10 minute wait in the tiny room. Because that’s exactly what my mind needed … more quiet time on its own to imagine the worst case scenarios. This is what that looks like for me:
Finally, the nurse came back in and told me things “looked good” but Dr. Nate, my cancer surgeon, would confirm once he had a chance to review the films. Thanks for nothin’, hon. I thought we were close based on the way you lovingly handled Lefty, but I guess not.
Luckily, when I got to Dr. Nate’s office, he got right to the point in total Dr. Nate fashion. Everything looks fine. I’m good to go until next year.
Seriously, people. Almost 30 minutes of complete terror and anxiety to hear “fine.”
But guess what? After my heart rate slowed to somewhat normal, I realized that fine is fantastic. Because now I’m 4 for 5 in clear mammograms. And I’m definitely looking forward that batting average getting better every year.
See you next September, boob squisher. I’ll be ready for you.
Basically Brynna 