I’ve been lax on updating my blog in recent weeks. In my defense, I’m going through a highly stressful time in my personal life. Of course, whenever one is feeling like they can’t handle any other crises without losing their mind, that’s usually when the universe says, “Let’s test that theory, shall we?” and dumps a whole bunch more on your shoulders. Last week, the universe did this with a little trick I like to call the Flawed Mammogram.
You ladies know what I’m talking about, but for you men, let me explain: this is when a woman goes for a mammogram because that’s what we’re told we should do the day after our fortieth birthday and then once a year for the rest of our lives. The Flawed Mammogram is when you get a call from the doctor saying you need to come backin for a second mammogram and possibly an ultrasound, but they won’t tell you why. Then they give you an appointment date that is either a month out or three days out. Both are troublesome: a month out gives you thirty whole days to wonder if they scheduled it that far out to make sure the oncologist will be available to meet with you, whereas three days out begs the question, Why do they want to see me so quickly?
Back in November, my employer made it very convenient for me to get a mammogram. They had a mobile mam-van park behind our building, and offered free mammograms to all their employees. Of course I took advantage of this. I should’ve known better. See, I come from a long line of women with dense breasts, which is just a nice way of saying we have fatty boobs. It’s hard to get a good mammogram reading with us, because blobs of fat—sorry, dense materials—often look like giant tumors onscreen. That I dared to try and get this done in something called a mam-van was pretty foolish.
Of course, I got the call to come in for a second one. Except this time, instead of going to the friendly neighborhood mammography facility, they wanted me to go to the hospital. In a month. Which, in my mind, was just enough time to coordinate my visit with the oncologist, grief counselor, and a local hospice care representative.
The day of my visit, they made me wait over an hour for the results of my second—and entirely more painful—mammogram. During that time, I called my attorney to update my will, phoned my parents to tell them I loved them, and Googled the nearest hospice center’s lunch menu, all while wearing a paper top fashioned out of a napkin. When the nurse finally came back, she told me I needed an ultrasound. “How soon?” I asked. “They’re serving corn chowder at the Comfort Care Center around the block at noon.” She assured me I would not be making lunch hour, and parked me in another room to wait, this time with my napkin shirt over my face and cold goo on my chest. Seriously, you men have no idea how humiliating this whole process can be.
Half an hour later, a technician ran a chilly ultrasound thingie over my cleavage, and announced that I was fine. “Huh?” I said, looking around for the oncologist.
“You have fatty boobs,” she said.
“You kept me here for three hours to tell me that?” I ground my teeth so hard my cheeks filled with enamel dust.
“Yup!” She was entirely too cheerful. “Here you go—this is the 2020 schedule for the mam-van. See you then!”
I can’t wait.
You ladies know what I’m talking about, but for you men, let me explain: this is when a woman goes for a mammogram because that’s what we’re told we should do the day after our fortieth birthday and then once a year for the rest of our lives. The Flawed Mammogram is when you get a call from the doctor saying you need to come backin for a second mammogram and possibly an ultrasound, but they won’t tell you why. Then they give you an appointment date that is either a month out or three days out. Both are troublesome: a month out gives you thirty whole days to wonder if they scheduled it that far out to make sure the oncologist will be available to meet with you, whereas three days out begs the question, Why do they want to see me so quickly?
Back in November, my employer made it very convenient for me to get a mammogram. They had a mobile mam-van park behind our building, and offered free mammograms to all their employees. Of course I took advantage of this. I should’ve known better. See, I come from a long line of women with dense breasts, which is just a nice way of saying we have fatty boobs. It’s hard to get a good mammogram reading with us, because blobs of fat—sorry, dense materials—often look like giant tumors onscreen. That I dared to try and get this done in something called a mam-van was pretty foolish.
Of course, I got the call to come in for a second one. Except this time, instead of going to the friendly neighborhood mammography facility, they wanted me to go to the hospital. In a month. Which, in my mind, was just enough time to coordinate my visit with the oncologist, grief counselor, and a local hospice care representative.
The day of my visit, they made me wait over an hour for the results of my second—and entirely more painful—mammogram. During that time, I called my attorney to update my will, phoned my parents to tell them I loved them, and Googled the nearest hospice center’s lunch menu, all while wearing a paper top fashioned out of a napkin. When the nurse finally came back, she told me I needed an ultrasound. “How soon?” I asked. “They’re serving corn chowder at the Comfort Care Center around the block at noon.” She assured me I would not be making lunch hour, and parked me in another room to wait, this time with my napkin shirt over my face and cold goo on my chest. Seriously, you men have no idea how humiliating this whole process can be.
Half an hour later, a technician ran a chilly ultrasound thingie over my cleavage, and announced that I was fine. “Huh?” I said, looking around for the oncologist.
“You have fatty boobs,” she said.
“You kept me here for three hours to tell me that?” I ground my teeth so hard my cheeks filled with enamel dust.
“Yup!” She was entirely too cheerful. “Here you go—this is the 2020 schedule for the mam-van. See you then!”
I can’t wait.
By the way, this hurts.
RSS Feed