Every Breast is Different

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And, I don't mean turkey breast. Don't continue reading if you are shy about parts, especially women's parts and the things we have to go through to maintain them.

I went for my yearly mammogram this morning. I dread my mammogram. Well, three years ago, I only dreaded it because of the pain, but now I dread it because of family history.

I checked in at the Imaging Center of the local hospital, and I received my little bracelet with my name on it and my date of birth. It was not a David Yurman bracelet, but I knew it was the more important bracelet in the scheme of things.

After checking in at x-ray, I went to the waiting room for Imaging with a form I had to fill out. I saw the question, "Is there a history of breast cancer in your family?" I sighed. I still could not believe that after both my parents died of cancer that my sister had been diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. It didn't seem fair, especially given that she was in the best shape of her life and lived a very healthy existence. I checked the box "Sister" and then I wrote in her age.

A mammographer tech came out and told me that I should go into the little dressing room and put on a robe leaving the opening in the front. Is it just me, or does it always seem like there are always an odd number of ties on those robe? It's as if the one tie that is missing leaves your bottom or left breast exposed?!

I hadn't showered yet, so I was worried that I might still have deodorant traces under my arms. So, I asked, albeit feeling a bit unhygienic, "I haven't showered yet today, so should I worry that I might still have deodorant on?" She said, "Just in case, use the wipes."

I went into the 2-by-2 dressing room, took of my Minnie Mouse t-shirt, my Littleton Hockey sweatshirt, and then stuffed them into a locker. I looked for the wipes. I found them in a basket to the left of the locker. I picked one up, but before I opened it, I glanced at the package. It said, "Mammo Fresh Wipes" on it.

Again, is it just me or would anyone relish buying and using anything that was prefixed with the word, "mammo?"

Mammo towels
Mammo chips
Mammo Oreos
Mammo Pepsi
Mammo Mini Cooper

Yeah, well, I didn't want to wipe my armpit with it either, but I had to. The person who thought up the name "Mammo Fresh" should be banned from the advertising/marketing sector for life! I'd rather wipe my armpits with "Windshield Wipes!"

After I was dressed and trying to keep my robe from falling off and exposing the fact that I hadn't shaved my armpits in two days, I returned to the waiting room. In a minute, the mammogram tech came back in, asked for the sheet I filled out, and told me to come with her.

We entered the mammogram room, and the first thing I noticed was a stiff COLD breeze. Yeah, there's nothing you want to feel more when you know you're going to be almost naked from the waist up in 2 minutes.

I said, "Jeez, it's cold in here. Could they make it a bit warmer?" She sympathized and said that the digital system needed the extra cooling. Okay, well, I was all for keeping the machine cool, but it still wasn't going to be any fun taking off half my robe; of course, it was half off anyway by now.

She looked at my chart and said, "Oh, you have fibrous breasts. I'm going to have to do six films." I cringed. Okay, many of you might now, I'm not, well, large. (Six films, instead of the usual four, seemed daunting.)

And, I've always been athletic. So, I never had to worry about one of them hitting me in the eye while running, playing volleyball, or cycling; however, the whole mammography process is more painful, in my opinion, when you have less to squeeze the life out of!

The tech saw me cringed when she said "six." She said, "I know. It must be painful." I said, "Well, I've got less here than most." She said, "Believe it or not, those aren't the smallest I've ever seen. I've seen smaller." Given it was December 5th, she must have been feeling extra charitable for Xmas, because I was fond of telling people, "I got my Dad's breasts!"

When I asked if only older woman had fibrous breasts, she answered, "Well, not really, Everyone is different. Every breast is different." (I almost laughed when she said that. I felt like saying, "Yes. And, it's not easy being green!)

She then volunteered that she was 37, and when she went for her mammogram, she thought her breasts would be fibrous; however, she found out that they were fatty. Fibrous, fatty, who knew!

She started to take the films, and it was hard not to breath during each, let alone yelp in pain. When I thought she had my breast squeezed tight enough, she looked at me, saw I was wincing in pain but not crying, and then she cranked the knob making the machine squeeze me even more.

After six painful films, I was given the okay to leave. I was told that the radiologist was not in today. So, I would not find out the results until next week. Ah, nothing like being kept in suspense. I wasn't too worried, but given the family history and my biopsy almost two years ago, I was still concerned.

I went to wrap my robe back up before going to the changing room. My chest looked like my neck did after I once tried to iron the lace collar of a dress while I was wearing it. It was wall-to-wall red marks, and my chest throbbed.

When I went out and entered the dressing room, a woman in the waiting room asked me, "How did it go?" I was kind of surprised to field such a question from the waiting room, but I answered, "Okay." As I turned to enter the 2-by-2 dressing room, I saw her whisper something to me in the form of a question.

I asked, "What?" She then whispered a bit louder, "Do they put things on your nipples?" I almost laughed out loud; however, I was in denial that she had actually asked me the question I thought she just did, so I asked, "What?" again. She said, "My friend said they put things on your nipples." I reassured her that while the tech did make my breasts resemble the flattest of pancakes, she didn't do anything to mess with those. The woman sighed and said, "Thank, God."

As I put my t-shirt and sweatshirt back on and bid a fond farewell to the "Mammo Fresh Wipes," I thought, "Jeez, what we woman have to go through!" I remember working at a pharmacy in high school and being miserable with cramps on one shift. I glanced over toward a Revlon display that said in bright red letters, "Isn't it great being a woman?" I looked at that sign all night in agony and said to myself over and over again, "No. No. No, and no!"

Women have to deal with menstruation, child bearing, mammograms, and menopause. Men have to turn their heads to the right and cough. How unfair is that?! Men can urinate anywhere they want easily, don't have to shave their legs and armpits, and don't have to be concerned with an odd hair or two growing on their chin. Again, how unfair is that?! :-)

I really wouldn't trade being a woman to be a man, even though sometimes, biologically, it seems a lot easier. Besides, I'd really miss having experienced a baby moving inside me, being able to cry whenever I wanted, and asking for directions when lost! I went back out into the waiting room.

The woman still sitting there asked, "So, do you get the results today?" I told her the radiologist wasn't in on Saturdays, so you had to wait until next week. She said, "That sucks!" My sentiments exactly. She told me she was nervous, and I told her I was, too.

She then said, "I'll pray for you, and you pray for me." I said, "That's a deal. And, do you know how on Earth I get out of here back to the main entrance?!" Ah, it's good to be able to ask for directions, even if it requires that you be wearing a bra. ♥

Should I Start Worrying Now Note: When I was looking through the nylons at Macy's the other night, I heard, "Mom, look!" I looked down and saw this.