Cups and Saucers

I recently survived my annual gynecological exam. Everything’s aging okay, I guess. If I was a car, I’d be a classic, and if I was a wine, I’d be expensive. I guess I’m just a classic whiner. I’ve never really understood the logic (if there is any) of insurance companies not paying much for well-woman exams. They’d rather pay for the cancer treatments?

There’s a new torture method, I mean screening procedure that I had this year. It’s called “Halo Breast Pap” test. It bears greater resemblance to the violent video game than to any thing angelic. I’ll spare any male readers the embarrassment of a detailed description. Just think of a vacuum cleaner attached to a delicate part of your anatomy. For five minutes. And you’re holding it in place. Now I have to have a mammogram. So, guys, spare me the grief over getting a prostate exam. At least you only have one of them.

I had my first mammogram when I was about thirty-six. I was very nervous that day. My first clue that it was going to be a bad day came at check-in, when the receptionist commented on my apparent anxiety. She said, “you could be here for a really difficult procedure, at least you’re only having a mammogram.” Things went downhill from there.

I was led to a little curtained cubicle and told to strip to the waist and put on the hospital gown. Having obeyed, I heard my name called from somewhere nearby. I peeked out into the hall and saw a woman with a file folder looking at me expectantly. She turned without speaking and disappeared down the hall. I grabbed my purse and followed, clutching the gown closed. I found the woman walking into a room with a mix of comfy furniture and large machinery. She started working on the machinery. Finally she turned and looked at me standing in the doorway. She closed the door and said with all the compassion of a black widow spider, “put your purse down over there, take off the gown and step over here.” Again I obeyed. She grabbed my breast and maneuvered me into the clutches of the large machine. I felt like I had to stand on tip-toe to be where she wanted me to be. Then she engaged the compression. Good God, what man invented this and decided it was useful? Then she said, “hold your breath.” Right. I haven’t got any to hold right now, ma’am. So we did this dance a couple more times, and finally I said, “this is extremely uncomfortable.” She stopped, stepped away slightly, and I swear, she put her hands on her hips and said, “we can do this so you’re comfortable or we can do this to get a good exam. Which do you want?” I was stunned. First, this was the most words she had strung together during my time with her. But mostly, I couldn’t believe her attitude. If I hadn’t been so nervous I would have wondered what burdens she was carrying that had so stripped her of empathy. But I was young and in pain, and she was being mean to me.

We finished the exam, and she told me to put the gown back on and have a seat while the radiologist had a look at the films. Make sure we didn’t need to redo any. Oh, yeah, please make sure we don’t have to redo any. I sat there, again clutching the gown closed, with my purse on my lap, and I started to cry. I swallowed my tears quickly, though, because I didn’t want HER to see them. She came back in and said everything was fine, I could get dressed. I sniffled. She said, “you have a cold or something?” I said, “yeah, something,” and fled out the door, desperately trying to remember the route back to my cubicle. Once dressed and outside, I started crying in earnest. But I was embarrassed, thinking back to the receptionist’s words. It was only a mammogram, for heaven’s sake.

A few days later I called the facility and asked for the name of the director. Then I wrote a letter. Now, I don’t like to complain in writing unless I can offer a solution. So I wrote a script as part of my letter, demonstrating an “ideal” encounter with a mammogram technician: starting with a cheery greeting, “good morning, Mrs. Smith, your first mammogram? Let me show you the machine,” making sure the patient wasn’t wearing any deodorant or powder, explaining the procedure, apologizing for cold hands, and preparing the patient for the brief moments of compression discomfort.

The director called me. Thanked me for my letter, and apologized for the bad time I’d had. She said she had spoken to the technician, and she didn’t remember me. (I guess when you’re looking at breasts all day, faces become incidental.) The director went on to say she appreciated the scenario I’d written into my letter. Would it be alright if they used it for training purposes.

I dodged the next mammogram for several years. Nevertheless, when I did go, to a different facility, I got misty-eyed undressing. It continued to be an embarrassment. I wanted to behave like a grown-up, but here I was crying over the technician from hell. Again. The technicians I’ve encountered since then have all been very kind, and the last few years I’ve managed to keep my composure. After all, it’s only a mammogram.

Patsy Clairmont once wrote, “mammogram: you know, that’s where the technician thinks she’s a magician, and tries to turn a cup into a saucer.” Hmm. I wonder if Patsy’s had a “Halo” exam yet…