I Know a Man Invented Mammograms

What is up with that machine they use for mammograms? The thing is sadistic in the worst way. First, you can’t wear deodorant that day, since the film on your armpit might interfere with the x-ray. So, by the time you get through the reception area where a dozen men, women and children all sit in silence, except for the kid who is chanting and talking to himself while he plays with a toy that he appears to be about three years too old for, you’re hot and pitted out. Then they call your name to fill out the paperwork and while you’re gone, they guy next to you steals your magazine just as you’re about to find out what Brad Pitt and Matt Damon are laughing out loud over. You’re stuck with an old issue of Sports Illustrated that isn’t even about Randy Moss mooning the Packers fans.

The odd mix of men and women is due to the fact that this is a nuclear test site prepared to perform every kind of test imaginable. When you call to set up the appointment, the electronic secretary says, “If you’re calling for MRI/CT, press one. For ultrasound, osteoporosis or dexoscreening, press 2. For mammogram, press 3.” Nothing like one-stop shopping.

After a surprisingly short wait, they call your name and you’re led down a long meandering hallway back to a 3×4 closet with bi-fold louvered doors and a small bench and a hook for your clothes. You’re instructed to remove your clothing from the waist up, put on a gown with opening in front and wait. So, as all women know, you put your purse on the hook first, then your bra, then your shirt, then your jacket, so a thief will have to dig around to get to the good stuff, assuming they don’t want your bra. A magazine rack beckons with three thick, dog-earred magazines stuffed inside. Two women’s magazine and a Gourmet. Just as you make your selection, which, of course, is Gourmet since the others are nothing but skinny women getting skinnier by strenuous and relentless exercise and diet, the technician appears.

This is the part where your stomach tightens, if that’s possible, and the technician invites you to follow her and bring your purse which results in the exact thing the thief would have experienced, digging around, lifting everything off the hook to get to the bag and leaving half the rest on the floor. You enter the room with the torture machine and chat about your last mammogram, family history, etc.

Then it happens, she says, “Okay, step over here.” Dread strikes your heart. She makes you drop the gown from your right shoulder and step toward the vice. “Lean forward now. Yes, that’s good.” Then she starts cranking and cranking until your boob is flat as a pancake and you’re writhing in pain. “Don’t breathe.”

Breathe? Is she kidding? This takes your breath away. You wouldn’t breathe if you had to or you’d lose one mammary in short order. Then it’s the left side, same drill, same pain, no breathing. You sigh, hoping it’s over, but it’s not. You can’t help but think what a man would do in a similar situation. “Okay, step up close and lay your penis in this vice. Don’t breathe.” They can’t stand to have their balls fondled, by a doctor anyway.

“Okay, now we’ll take the sideways view.” This entails having each breast clamped vertically and squeezed like a tortilla while she takes a picture. The good news, when it’s over it’s like it never happened except for the lingering memory, which causes a twitch in your belly everytime.

Back to the closet where you wait in your gown until she develops the picture to make sure it’s a good one, and then you’re released to await the arrival of a letter (if the mammogram is okay) or a phone call (if it’s not.)

You walk out feeling relieved and glad to leave the crowd behind – now you just need the results to free your mind so your ass can follow.