When living with a chronic illness, it’s easy to lose sight of the many things that are normally done to maintain overall good health or to make sure there aren’t any new health issues. Recently, for the first time in ages, I did something preventive instead of focussing only on treating existing illness(es). I had a mammogram. My GP (general practitioner/family doctor) ordered it at the beginning of the new year. Because, in her words, I was “overdue” to have one done.
I know she was right. Nevertheless, I still wasn’t eager to have all feeling squashed out of my breasts. The last time I had a mammogram seemed like centuries ago, but I can still remember the pressure of the hard plastic trays that flatten a woman’s breasts so a detailed image of her breast tissue is clearly captured. It hurt. Because of that memory, I wasn’t looking forward to experiencing that extreme discomfort again.
I was able to get the mammogram appointment scheduled at the same Breast Clinic as the previous one. The Breast Clinic is in the same hospital as the Pain Clinic where I’m treated, which isn’t too far from my home, so I walked to my appointment. I’ve been walking to my appointments as much as possible in recent months, even though it takes days – and sometimes as much as a week or longer – to recover because it’s a chance to get some fresh air and much-needed exercise. Although it was quite cold outside, walking there in the crisp winter air was a chance to steel my nerves as I anticipated the added pain to come.
After registering at the Breast Clinic’s reception desk, I didn’t wait long to hear my name called. Along with another patient, I received instructions to undress in an area with small, curtained cubicles and to put on blue hospital gowns, making sure they opened in the front. Because it was freezing cold outside, I had dressed in multiple layers of warm clothes, so it took ages for me to undress, which being in a small confined space didn’t help. Of course, I also had a hard time tying the hospital gown closed. It wasn’t that I couldn’t tie the belt. It was that the oversized gown kept falling open. I finally gave up and walked into the sitting area clutching the collar closed.
As soon as I entered the sitting area, the Mammography Technician came to get me. She was cheerful in a way that put me on edge. I suppose that when you do work – no matter how well-intentioned – that causes another person to feel pain, being overly cheerful is one way to attempt to make them feel at ease while making yourself feel better. I followed her cheerfulness down the hall to the examination room where she told me to stand in front of the Mammography machine.
She fiddled with some dials on the control panel then walked over to position my body for the first scan. I was so anxious about the imminent flattening of my breasts that I started to sweat. That made me self-conscious because the hospital gown had to be pulled off my shoulders so the Mammography Technician could grab hold of each of my now sweaty breasts to place them, one at a time, on the shelf of the Mammography machine. After which she would lower the plastic tray above each breast until it squashed it; and while being squashed, enough x-rays to capture good images would shoot through each breast. Just thinking about this made me sweat more. Thankfully, the Mammography Technician didn’t seem to notice my sweat.
Even so, I fully expected my breasts to pop out from between the shelf and tray before an image could be captured. But no… regardless of how slippery my skin or the size of my breasts the Mammography Technician’s training was not going to fail her. She pinched and squeezed until every bit of each breast was first flattened vertically like too many books forced on a too small shelf; then horizontally like a sandwich in a Panini press. Then, just as I was bracing myself for more discomfort, it was over.
My memory, it seemed, had exaggerated the length of time I had previously spent having my flesh contorted. Although, I suspect, it might have more to do with the skill of the Mammography Technician. She didn’t spend a lot of time repositioning me (my body or my breasts) to settle me in the right angles to capture the necessary images. All it took was fours scans – each breast from two different positions – for her to get it right. In hindsight, maybe that’s why she’s so cheerful: she gets each patient in and out of the Mammography machine so fast they have nothing to complain about. At least I had nothing to complain about; she even let me take pictures of the Mammography machine so I wouldn’t have to look for stock photos online.
I left the exam room and I got dressed in the many layers of clothing I’d put on to keep me warm on my walk to and from the hospital, faster than I had undressed. As I took the elevator to the main floor and walked out into the frigid gray afternoon, I had a smile on my face because the thing that I – and millions of women all over the world – dreaded doing that afternoon, turned out not to be so bad. Thanks to that Mammography Technician, I left the Breast Clinic in a better mood than when I went in. And because of this positive experience, I’ll be reminding all the women I care about to go have mammograms.
Even better, that positive experience was the inspiration to create something colourful that I’ve titled: Decorated Drops.
My Small Surrenders 