Saturday afternoon the phone rang. This is rare on any saturday but especially so the weekend of General Conference. Even before I checked the caller I.D I had a premonition it would be a request for a do-over of the mammogram I had had the previous Tuesday. It turns out that it was my healthcare provider calling but it was just a recording informing me that “a prescription that you have ordered has been mailed per your request”.
I had post-traumatic-stress flashbacks from three years ago anyway.
The Flashback: Three years ago I had my very first mammogram. Ever. I was almost 42. The fact that my grandmother, mother and sister have all had (and survived) breast cancer makes my (late) (ish) timing a bit foolish. But I wasn’t worried. When all the “pictures” had been taken and the technician returned to say she needed a retake of the right breast (she claimed I must have moved) (I didn’t) “just in case”, I still wasn’t worried. She was quite pleased with her retake so I was very surprised when she called back a few days later explaining that I needed to come back in for a more thorough mammogram. I was annoyed, but still not worried.
I didn’t worry until a doctor (he didn’t say but I suspect he was an oncologist) called to say (in sepulchral tones) that I needed a biopsy on my right breast and that further information would be coming in the mail. Since I was more than familiar with the fact that I have always (that’s ALWAYS) had a non-malignant mass (or so I’ve been told) in my right breast, I was even more annoyed than worried. However, when I received the glossy photos of women lying face down on an ironing-board style table with a lovely breast-sized hole in it that allowed the doctor to do who-knows-what to your breast while the biopsee (not a real word for those who assume I only use real ones) (I don’t) was blind to the proceedings, I started to consider the possibility that I had breast cancer.
One painful biopsy later (the doctor gave me a shot to kill the pain but he missed the nerve. Yeah. Lovely. Especially since they removed a square half inch of tissue from my breast which is not the least missed considering that dense mass amassed in that same general area) and another mammogram immediately following, there was no cancer at all whatsoever. Each of my annual mammograms I have had since (two) have gone off without a hitch (I try to ignore the gasps of dismay from the technician when she reads my breast-cancer-ridden family history) until Tuesday when the technician cheerily informed me that she had to re-do the right breast. “You must have been breathing or moved when I took the first one.” (I didn’t.)
Speed forward to Monday morning. The phone rang and this time it was my premonition realized—it was Kaiser with the request that I come back in for a more thorough mammogram of the right breast. She softened the blow with the old standby piece of propaganda “You must have moved or something.”
(Ladies, if it has been more than a year since your last mammogram, go and get one and make it sooner than later. You won't be sorry. Okay, maybe you will be but not as sorry as you could be or might be IF . . . )
The Flashback: Three years ago I had my very first mammogram. Ever. I was almost 42. The fact that my grandmother, mother and sister have all had (and survived) breast cancer makes my (late) (ish) timing a bit foolish. But I wasn’t worried. When all the “pictures” had been taken and the technician returned to say she needed a retake of the right breast (she claimed I must have moved) (I didn’t) “just in case”, I still wasn’t worried. She was quite pleased with her retake so I was very surprised when she called back a few days later explaining that I needed to come back in for a more thorough mammogram. I was annoyed, but still not worried.
I didn’t worry until a doctor (he didn’t say but I suspect he was an oncologist) called to say (in sepulchral tones) that I needed a biopsy on my right breast and that further information would be coming in the mail. Since I was more than familiar with the fact that I have always (that’s ALWAYS) had a non-malignant mass (or so I’ve been told) in my right breast, I was even more annoyed than worried. However, when I received the glossy photos of women lying face down on an ironing-board style table with a lovely breast-sized hole in it that allowed the doctor to do who-knows-what to your breast while the biopsee (not a real word for those who assume I only use real ones) (I don’t) was blind to the proceedings, I started to consider the possibility that I had breast cancer.
One painful biopsy later (the doctor gave me a shot to kill the pain but he missed the nerve. Yeah. Lovely. Especially since they removed a square half inch of tissue from my breast which is not the least missed considering that dense mass amassed in that same general area) and another mammogram immediately following, there was no cancer at all whatsoever. Each of my annual mammograms I have had since (two) have gone off without a hitch (I try to ignore the gasps of dismay from the technician when she reads my breast-cancer-ridden family history) until Tuesday when the technician cheerily informed me that she had to re-do the right breast. “You must have been breathing or moved when I took the first one.” (I didn’t.)
Speed forward to Monday morning. The phone rang and this time it was my premonition realized—it was Kaiser with the request that I come back in for a more thorough mammogram of the right breast. She softened the blow with the old standby piece of propaganda “You must have moved or something.”
(Ladies, if it has been more than a year since your last mammogram, go and get one and make it sooner than later. You won't be sorry. Okay, maybe you will be but not as sorry as you could be or might be IF . . . )
(For those who think they see symbolism in my photo, doubt not.)
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