A word to all men: This is a G-rated account, and I apologize (especially to my co-workers) if the topic makes you uncomfortable. Please use this as a tool to keep the women in your life healthy by encouraging them to have routine screenings performed.
You see, I, too have made a plethora of excuses to avoid having a mammogram. I have no family history of breast cancer. I am under 40. I sometimes revert to child-like tendencies and pretend I’m invincible. However, due to my dense breast tissue, my doctor recommended I have a screening mammogram done—a year ago. I coupled all of the above “reasons,” tossed in a dash of apprehension, and put off scheduling my appointment. It wasn’t until my first meeting with Dr. Sheron Patterson, where I learned that she was the first of her family to develop the dreaded disease, that I decided it was time to buck up and do this.
The first part was quite painless. I was able to schedule online (not a fan of the phone).
Thursday, May 10th rolls around. I arrive at the women’s diagnostic imaging center and I’m greeted by Romaine, a pleasant, middle-aged woman who affixes my hospital band, offers me a complimentary beverage and equips me with a clipboard and fifteen-minutes worth of paperwork. I play on my phone for another fifteen before Romaine escorts me into the changing room and leaves me to decipher how to wrap a one-size-fits-all, triangular piece of floral fabric around my tiny frame. After a lengthy bit, I manage to fashion the garment into a modest top, secured in back like a knotted bandana, and proceed to the locker room/waiting area.
Knowing it’s my first time, the radiology tech is kind and explains the procedure to me, offering an optional thyroid shield to safeguard against harmful radiation—something I had read about in my research. I gladly accept the additional protection and assess the dimly lit room. The tech’s computer and viewing station is to the right, and a large, futuristic-looking machine looms in front of me, beckoning me to draw closer…
The three-minute mammogram itself is quick but not entirely painless. Think back to wood shop class, and that rusty, hand-cranked vice that held the wood in place—only this time, it’s made of sanitary plastic, and the amount of tension is determined by tech-operated foot pedals. The human body is contorted and compressed into odd positions, one with my nose oddly pressed against plexi-glass to achieve the proper view, and the other with my arm configured into some sort of right angle. I won’t lie. It’s a little uncomfortable, but the pressure lasts for just a few seconds. On the pain scale of 1 to 10, I’d give it a 3. Let’s just say I’d choose a mammogram over a dentist visit any day of the week.
The right side is over quickly, but the tech seems to hesitate for a second after assessing the left views on her digital screen. I can’t see a thing and her delay makes me slightly apprehensive. She finally takes the last picture and then it’s all over. I’m informed that I’ll receive a phone call if they need further imaging, and the results should be in the mail in about a week. I’m slightly relieved to have it behind me, but the waiting and fear of the unknown is the worst part. So is the National Cancer Institute’s statistic that I read after returning to my office: “Screening mammograms miss up to 20 percent of breast cancers that are present at the time of screening.” Definitely did not know that.
Fears aside, my first mammogram was as pleasant an experience as the unnatural compression of body parts can be. I strongly recommend that all women brave the vice—if not for their own peace of mind, but for the comfort of their friends and family members who want them to live a long and healthy life.
-Tammy Vanderkolk
Art & Communications Director
Lovers Lane United Methodist Church
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