For the ladies
Okay, y’all. I had a mammogram yesterday. I have a family history of breast cancer, so (reluctantly) when I turned 45 I dutifully began the annual pink-ribbon ritual. I’m small-breasted and not at all modest, so to be honest it just isn’t that much of an ordeal for me. Physically, that is. Mentally, from the minute I schedule the appointment, I am constructing various scenarios starting with phrases like, “Now, Ms. D., there’s no need for you to worry yet, but we need to run a few more tests…” and ending with my writing good-bye letters to the children and donating my hair to Locks of Love. (I am now two years younger than my mother was when the cancer was diagnosed that killed her five years later.)
Used to be, at the place I go, you were alone with either the technician, the doctor, or your own sweet self from the minute you left the waiting room until you went home. But they remodeled, and it’s different now. Yesterday the tech called me in along with two other women. We were led to a hall with several closet-sized dressing rooms containing lockers with keys and a minuscule waiting area. There we were instructed to undress to the waist, put on hospital johnnies, lock up our clothes, and have a seat. We were called from there to be scanned, and returned there to wait for The Doctor to give us the final verdict. As my husband said when I told him later: “like the menstrual hut.”
Like I said, this waiting area was very small, 10 x 10 or less. One gal, an outgoing type, was playing social director, engaging the other ladies in conversation and so on. Breast cancer battle stories, y’all know the kind of thing I mean. I missed a lot, having arrived late to the party, but I think this woman had either had a mastectomy or had a close friend who did, and felt herself to be something of an insider.
So, my name was called, my squished boobs were photographed, and back to the hut I went. To be fair, I was feeling better by then—they have a new digital machine and the tech can see the image right away, and she’d told me everything looked fine. While I waited for my turn with The Doctor, another woman who I hadn’t seen before came through. “It was good news!” she announced joyfully. Happy congratulations all round. “Well, see y’all next year!” and she exited stage left. Just then my name was called and off I went to have my thirty second meeting with the doctor. (Everything looked fine.) I went back to get dressed and, as I opened the door to the dressing room, Social Director said, “Well? Was it good news?”
I wish I’d had the presence of mind to say, “Why would you think it’s your business?” But instead I said something like, “Yes, thank you,” in my absolute bitchiest freeze voice. I threw on my clothes and got the eff out of Dodge, without promising to see anybody next year, either. Okay, I know, she was just trying to be friendly. But honestly. If I HAD gotten bad news, would I have wanted to share with this stranger? Who, I might add, had already been heard to heartily declare, “Heck, I just see it as an excuse never to have to wear a bra again”?
So: I am taking an informal poll. At your last mammogram, did you have to suit up in your johnny and sit around with a bunch of other women similarly clad? Or not? Am I being unreasonable and elitist to dislike this all-sisters-together method (which I’m sure is saving bucks for the hospital)? Because next year, I’m either going to find another facility that doesn’t do it like this, or bring along an Italian newspaper and practice saying, “Non parlo inglese.”
May 22nd, 2008 at 9:40 am
Yes. Cubicle with lockers where you leave your clothes, put on the 3 armed gown and sit in the waiting area (12×15?). There’s a TV and usually one or two other women there. I’ve never seen anyone behave remotely like a “social director.” We watch TV or read a magazine. The conversation usually tops out at “Sure is cold in here.”
But there’s no doctor involved at this place. You get the pictures taken, the tech makes sure they’re good photos then get dressed and go home. In about a week a letter arrives saying “all’s well” or “come back for more.”
Glad you got the “all’s well.”
May 22nd, 2008 at 10:08 am
Oh God, if there had been a TV I would have gone smack out of my mind. It was bad enough having to listen to Nick Jr. in the general waiting room.
I’ve been googling a little and apparently my experience yesterday is the norm, not the exception. I’ve even read a couple of blog posts from women who deliberately started conversations in the (silent till then) Hut and were proud of themselves for encouraging others to “open up.” (And comments on those blogs from women who feel the same way I do.) I’ve got no problem with a little chit-chat about the weather or even the indignity of the gowns. But I draw the line at “opening up.” Especially here in Lower Alabama, where, if you share your breastal anxiety with a stranger, she’s entirely liable to grab your hand and say, “Pray with me.”
Oh, and I was at the University hospital - the doctor was a radiology resident. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) But I’d just as soon wait for the postcard, to tell you the truth.
May 22nd, 2008 at 10:25 am
OMG, I have never heard of that, thankfully. Yikes! I can’t imagine having to chat and then to discuss your results with strangers?! As I was reading, I envisioned the doctor coming into the hut, pointing at each woman in turn and saying, “Good”, “Good”, “Bad”, “Good.”
The place I patronize and refer to is quite swanky, situated in a Wellness Center that includes a spa! And a Starbucks! Anyway, the mammogram procedure is all one on one and takes me only 15 minutes from my car back to my car. I then get a faxed report the next day (of course, my privacy is violated because my staff retrieves the report). It’s a drive, Del, but it may be worth your while to visit.
May 22nd, 2008 at 11:08 am
Say WHAT?!! Whose idea was this arrangement?! I’m waaaay behind on mine (about 2 years-Yikes!), but I sure hope my facility hasn’t changed to this kind of nuttiness. Guys would probably argue that nothing can compare to the “all in a line for the finger wave” during military physicals, but danged if this doesn’t sound like the nearest female equivalent.
I don’t like the sound of this one bit. Bad enough to have to go through the boob (and underarm) squish, but to have to be part of the paper dress parade beforehand is just too much.
May 22nd, 2008 at 11:35 am
Ugh. That’s too much forced closeness for me. I’m happy to say my last mammogram was at the place Renee patronizes. It was as quick and painless as I’ve ever experienced, and I didn’t have to talk to anyone except the very nice tech who performed the test.
The one previous to that, I had a small child with me who got to stand outside the test cubicle while I literally whimpered in pain. I kept telling the tech that something was wrong, but she just said, “I know it hurts, honey, but we have to get it tight.” Apparently tight enough to leave bruises across my upper chest. I wasn’t sorry to go elsewhere.
(Yeah, I know, Renee, I’m way overdue for another one.
)
May 22nd, 2008 at 11:40 am
…if you share your breastal anxiety with a stranger, she’s entirely liable to grab your hand and say, “Pray with me.”
I could see that happening here too, and I’m afraid my response would be violent.