My Humps

No woman wants to hear the “You have a lump,” but last month, I heard just that at my annual exam. “You have a lump” was followed with “it’s probably nothing,” which is about as reassuring as a phlebotomist with fangs. My doctor ordered a diagnostic mammogram and a breast ultrasound, adding “you’re going to be forty soon anyway, but why wait?” Thus wrapping up one of the worst medical experiences I have had since the last worst medical experience. They are all pretty bad, are they not?

Yesterday, I hauled my old lumpy tits to the outpatient radiology department, which is so top secret, they don’t even have their name on the signs, either outside or inside the building. I felt like I was going for a CIA interview; they didn’t confirm the appointment by phone nor mail, and when I called for directions, I had to ask for clarification three times before she would even tell me what building they are in.

The top secret nature of my mammogram continued when I walked up to the information kiosk and asked the woman behind the counter if the radiology department was in the building. She answered my question with one of her own, asking me what I was scheduled to have. I told her, and then she asked me for my date of birth. Mind you, she had no paperwork open in front of her nor a computer monitor on her desk. She directed me past the main waiting room and down the blue hall to the radiology window. Before I went, I mentioned to her that none of the signs in or out of the building indicated the location of the radiology department and she said, “They just joined us,” whatever that means.

I sauntered past the bored families with their ill clothed children sitting on every available chair, all watching the extensive coverage of Michael Jackson’s memorial service. When I reached the radiology window, I was again asked for my birth date, only this receptionist had a stack of papers which she turned over and flipped through and turned again and shuffled, like she was solving a 2 dimensional Rubik’s cube. Finally, she looked at me and said, “Follow the green wall until the left turn and go to Breast Imaging.” All these halls and windows. I walked the labyrinthine halls, until I find the breast imaging window, where I again recited my date of birth to another woman behind glass. Only this was the end of the line, or rather, the start of the real line. She told me to follow the short hall to the waiting area. Whoever designed this facility must have been a big Dante fan.

Anyway, I found the waiting area, and there was only one seat unoccupied, right next to the smoker who was waiting on his wife to finish having her breasts imaged. I contemplated telling him that one of causes of breast cancer was second hand smoke, but I didn’t really want to engage him in conversation, lest the smell coming from his open mouth was worse than the one emanating from his clothing. The rest of the boobs waiting were watching Michael Jackson’s memorial service on television, all slack jawed and mesmerized. I read the book I brought with me, but unfortunately I only had one chapter left and didn’t think it would hold me.

Miracle of miracles, my name was called right when I finished the last page. I was escorted to a dressing room with a door on either side, complete with dorm room sized television, box of Kleenex, and several industrial sized cans of Secret antiperspirant. The nurse told me to disrobe from the waist up and handed me a big square vest with two snaps at the top, and told me to wait until the technician came for me. I took off my t-shirt and bra and stuffed them in my purse, then put on the vest and sat in the chair in front of the mirror. There was a full length mirror on the back of the door, so I had the opportunity to see how bad I looked from more than one angle, which I thought was very considerate of them. I riffled through the magazines arranged on the counter, but the newest was over two years old, which didn’t bode well for the wait I faced.

Finally, a technician opened my other door and escorted me into the mammogram room. She couldn’t get her computer to work to ask me the preliminary questions that I referred to as “foreplay,” so we got right down to business. Right breast out. This woman whose name I couldn’t remember positioned it, yanked on it, and finally trapped it between some Plexiglas before telling me to hold my breath, while she stepped behind a clear screen and took some images. After rearranging my right knocker for a few more snaps, I was permitted to tuck it back in its little vest and then sat down to answer some questions about why I was there, my nursing history, and a whole bunch of other extremely personal boob questions that even I don’t want to talk about again. I pointed out that the small talk usually comes before second base, which lucky for me she found amusing, since we still had to get to the left side, the reason I had come here in the first place. She took out a sticker and labeled the general lump area, not unlike a grocery store tomato, before we started in on the squishing and grabbing and squeezing of that side. I was proud of myself for avoiding all eye contact. I did experience some discomfort, but it was more of the emotional kind than actual physical pain.

I went back to my little dressing room to do what else, wait some more, since I was having an ultrasound as well. I sat and stared at myself for a while, then broke down and turned on the television. Bingo! Cable, right there in the dressing room. I flipped through all the channels covering Michael Jackson’s memorial service, which was making this whole experience even more surreal, and kept flipping until I found Wild Boyz on MTV. I might watch this show in the privacy of my own home, but what if some ultra Christian nurse walked in on me watching two men electro stimulate their nifkins? So I settled for the innocuous Animal Planet, barely paying attention while listening to another nurse call names in the waiting room like it was The Price is Right or something. My door opened a few more times, but they were false alarms.

Twenty minutes later, a technician opened my door and escorted me down the hall, me clutching my purse and clothes in one hand and my vest in the other, since it was peeping open with every step I took. We entered the ultrasound room, which is a lot like a massage room, only slightly more medical looking. The lights were dimmed, and the gurney almost looked comfortable, although there were no aromatherapy products or CDs of trickling water in the background. I hopped up on the gurney and she squirted hot gel all over my chest before rubbing over it with her trusty little ultrasound thingy. She didn’t look like she had a sense of humor, so I decided to not make my standard inappropriate ultra sound joke (Is it a boy or girl?). I didn’t move, opting instead to stare at the starving artist’s oil painting on the wall and wish this whole thing to end. She removed my lump sticker as slowly and painfully as possible, and then went to work on the left side, before handing me a towel and telling me she was off to show my tits to the radiologist.

I felt so used, lying there with sticky breasts and a generic white towel. I had no idea how long it was going to take, since she never gave me any sign of encouragement, such as “all clear” or “I don’t see anything” or “nice rack.” So, of course, that was when my cell phone started to ring. And ring. And ring. It never went to voice mail, it just kept ringing what before then I thought was a funny cool ring tone, but at that moment was the worst noise ever imagined. I finally hopped off the table and shut the damn thing off which had somehow gotten stuck on ring mode, then scampered back to my position before I was detected.

She came back some time later and handed me a blue piece of paper. “We’ll see you next year,” she said cheerfully. “Everything looks normal.” “What about the lump?” I asked her. “Oh, that’s nothing,” she said. “Just be sure to check it every month and see if it gets any bigger. To get out, go out that door, follow the tan hall, take a left, then another right.” And she left.

I was pretty happy as I wiped off my girls and cradled them gently back in my bra. I held my chest up proudly as I attempted to find my way back out, and by the time I got to my car, I felt like ripping my shirt off and twirling some pasties. But I didn’t. Just because my tests are normal doesn’t mean I have new and improved titties. They are the same ones I started the day with, only now they are certified with a clean bill of nipple.