Fisher Price's My First Mammogram

It was time to put my money where my mouth is. After six months of training, fundraising and raising awareness about breast cancer, I had yet to have my first mammogram. Finally, just after my 40th birthday my mammogram date arrived.

I went to the appointment devoid of all lotions, perfumes and deodorants. At that moment, the mammogram wasn't as big a worry as how in the heck I was going to get through the nervous stress sweats the procedure was sure to cause without being shrouded in a cloud of stink lines. Oh yeah, this was sure to be a great time.

I reassured myself with the insane reasoning that while this was going to be unpleasant and uncomfortable it was far better than a gynecological exam. Any opportunity to keep my pants on in public is a good opportunity and should be noted as such. Note that when the only good point you can come up with about a particular event is that it doesn't involve showing someone your cervix, you are probably in for a bad time.

Because I'm new at this and naive, I expected the office to be a "mammogram" office so I was surprised when I walked in to a waiting room bursting with a very co-ed, mixed age crowd. Many paitents were elderly and this must be the norm because the receptionist spoke in a very loud, slow voice. (Translation for those under the age of 70: she shouted at me like I was thick or from a foreign country.) In addition to having a voice like a bat, she was startlingly young. Young enough to have very well been wearing a Girl Scout uniform under her perky, smiley face decorated scrubs.

"WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU TODAY, HUN?"

Um, Hun? Seriously? I leaned over the desk and said in sotto voice: "I'm here for a mammogram?" followed by a raised eyebrow and knowing eyeroll for effect.

Securing a flower-adorned pen to a clip board holding a sheaf of paperwork and slid it across the desk at me. "JUST FILL THIS OUT AND SOMEONE WILL COME RIGHT OUT AND CALL YOUR NAME, SWEETHEART. NOW GO SIT OVER THERE AND FILL IT OUT." Kindly leaving off "like a good girl." Sheesh.

I get halfway through the waiting area before I hear, "IS THIS YOUR FIRST MAMMOGRAM, HONEY?" Are you kidding me right now? I turn and nod, as if not speaking is going to somehow make the conversation suddenly private. Satisfied with my response, the receptionist goes to work on her computer.

I walk through the waiting area, desperate to hide the top sheet on the clipboard. The bottom half of it has several diagrams of breasts on it. Suddenly, I am the most modest person I know. Yes, I am the same person who has spent a year and a half shouting about boobs and mammograms to anyone who will listen. Somehow, now that I'm on the receiving end of things, it doesn't seem like such a fabulous event.

Finally, it's time for the fun to begin. Sporting a trendy paper shirt (open in the front) and my jeans proudly displaying my unexercised midsection, I stand before a fairly harmless looking machine. It's much smaller than I imagined and the flat paddles look harmless enough. As we've learned time and time again: looks can be deceiving.

There was a bit of manhandling by the technician (mammogram-ologist?) just before she pushed a magic button somewhere and and suddenly my right breast was sandwiched between two flat plates. The upper plate was clear and I made the unfortunate decision to watch as my breast spread like Silly Putty under the pressure of the wicked machine. The pain was fairly intense and I was sweating so much my hair was starting to frizz. Just when I thought things couldn't get any flatter, the machine spits out one final whirr and I hear a "fppppt" noise as a tiny bit of air escapes from some micro thin pocket of space between my compressed skin and the plastic plates. That's it lady, that's all I've got to give. She disappears behind a podium and there is a series of beeps and clicks as the images of my now sandwich bag shaped/sized breast are captured.

As I stood waiting for the machine to unleash me, the technician had to remind me to breathe. I gulped in a chest full of air and looked down again through the clear paddle, this time at my untrim abs. The pain in my chest kept my brain from registering the serious bubble gut before me. Who would have thought that there would ever come a time whenI would stand topless in a room with a stranger and the very last thing on my mind would be the fact that my gut was poking out over the top of my jeans? Seriously?

Finally, after what felt like several days, the machine released me. In a split second, I yanked myself free and was busily closing up my paper shirt and mentally preparing myself for side two.

False alarm. That was a "break" not the end of side one as I had hoped. No, as it turns out taking a picture of a flattened piece of flab held in a vice grip takes time...and several good college tries.

I'm squeezed from top to bottom and side to side. Time stops and the technician comes over occasionally to maneuver my reddened flesh into a new flapjack-esque shape. Each time she approaches me she comments, "wow, you are sweating a lot." Yes, I am sweating a lot. I am also out of shape, topless and standing in a room with a stranger while a machine manhandles my boobs. How about fewer obvious comments and more mammogram taking, hmmm?

Finally, my first mammogram was behind me. The front of me was flaming red and my ego was bruised. I didn't know the results of the mammogram yet but I knew that I was in dire need of some deodorant and a serious ab routine.

This One's for You

Yes, you heard it right. I am back for round 2 of the Breast Cancer 3 day in November 2010. It all sounds so fun and cheerful right now--so do-able and nifty. But what will it be like at the end of August when I have walked about 100 miles in scorching heat, sweat-sodden underpants and the company of millions of insects? One can only guess.

Didn't I get enough the first time? Yes, yes I did thank you very much. I would be quite fine for the remainder of my time walking this earth if I never had to use another port-a-potty, suffer the humiliation of red-which-clashes-with-pink clown shoes, or sleep in a God-forsaken tent (pink or otherwise). Life without random running beetles, public restrooms and the humiliation of exercise classes would be good. But life without cancer would also be good.

So while I have whined and moaned and suffered through one 3-day, a year off has allowed me to rest up and renew my courage, strength and purpose in this mission. On Black Friday I began officially begging for money. In June I dust off my clown shoes and start walking for all of us who may contract cancer, all of you who are fightning it and everyone who has lost the battle. I walk for cancer of all types because if we can cure one, the cure for the others can't be far behind.

Welcome back to the journey.