B is for Boob

I had my annual mammogram this morning. I have a lump, that my doctor in Baltimore found almost two years ago. Rounds of doctors, jags of crying, trips to the radiologist, thoughts of cancer -- and it turned out to be a cyst. But something that needs to be checked every six months. So I see my doctor twice a year, and get my "girls" squeezed once a year.

My doctor in Ithaca, perhaps being very perceptive to my neurotic personality, told me not to do self breast exams. That it would only make me worry, and that he would be checking them every six months. Probably a good thing. When the lump was first found, I checked my breasts every morning before I got out of bed, rather than the once a month that is recommended. Sort of goes along with the whole weighing myself twice a day thing.

But back to the mammogram...Can you imagine (ok guys, I know you can) mammographer for a job? Nothing but handling boobs -- literally -- all day long. And I realize that there is nothing sexual about it...at all. But really....I almost starting laughing at the absurdity of it, when the technician was adjusting one of the "girls" and literally slapped the other one off the film board.

When you think about it, the whole experience is rather bizarre. You go into a private dressing room, take off all your clothes from the waist up and put on a hospital gown, and then go sit in a private waiting room. With other women. Who are dressed the same way. Dress pants or jeans, and a hospital gown, opening in front, tied at the side. And you read magazines or make small talk, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

And then you go into the radiology room and you stand in front of a big machine with a small platform. The technician adjusts it so the platform is at your chest. Then because gravity does take over, she hoists your breast onto the platform, molding it in the way she wants it to lay and then holding it in place while another platform comes from the top, essentially squeezing it as flat as it can go. Hold your breath, don't move, and click, the Kodak film has an image of the inside your breast. Now let's do the other one.

I'll go to my doctor next week. He'll have seen the films, and he'll do an exam, and tell me I'm fine. He'll ask if I'm okay with everything, if I'm worried about anything -- and I'll ask him the same thing I always ask. "If I was your wife, would you suggest she be treating this any differently?" And he'll say no, and I'll tell him I trust him. And that's that for six more months.