A Smashing Good Time

I’ve been a performer since the time I was three. My parents put me in tumbling classes as soon as I could do a forward roll and I have been on a stage ever since. It’s where I’m most comfortable. Recently, I had to perform in an unfamiliar place. Let me bring you into my performance . . .

The stage is set, and since this is a new routine, I feel a little jittery. Would my audience approve? What would they really see in my performance? As with most theaters, the temperature is cold so as to make the performers work even harder at expressing themselves through their craft. That’s ok, I thought. My routine should be short, so the cold air shouldn’t affect my performance negatively. I can do this, I remind myself. I change into my costume and wait for my time to shine.

Oh, I forgot to mention the venue of my performance. I’m at The Breast Center of Local Texas Town (the name of the real city has been left out in order to protect the innocent.) I can’t describe the joy you feel when your doctor tells you, “It’s time for you to get your first mammogram.” Fantastic. Just what I always wanted to do. But I knew I had to do it even though a root canal sounded milder.

For all you men out there, I will try to leave out all of the gory details of what I’m about to describe. But please read it and then hug your girl for enduring such a barbaric procedure. I’m sure you know the basics of a mammogram. But let me fill you in on some details that you may not be aware of.

First of all, you are not allowed to wear deodorant. This sounded weird to me when Appointment Lady told me, “No deodorant, no lotions, no perfume.” Hmmm. That’s strange. I guess there are people who have sensitivities to that stuff, I thought. I couldn’t have been farther from the reality of this stinky rule. From my experience, the reason for no deodorant is so that you are not slippery. Yup. When the technician “arranges” you on the plate, she absolutely needs lots of friction…to the point where at one point, Ms. Sticky Fingers was able to pull skin that typically covers my back all the way around to the front. And to be sure you have followed the rules, there are “mammo-wipes” in the dressing room. I promise that’s what they are called, and when I grabbed one (because I mainly wanted to see what they were like), I died laughing. (For the record, they are similar to the handi-wipes they give you at a bar-be-cue restaurant. Interesting. Proof this cruel procedure was developed by a man.)

The next tidbit I’d like to share is the ironic instructions you are given during the procedure. Now don’t get me wrong…Mammo-Technician is very good at her job and is very professional. But I was taken aback by just a couple of her directions. As you are standing there after being manipulated and contorted in the most awkward position possible, without warning, the Plexiglas plate begins moving down to meet the other plate and for some reason, you don’t run away from the Plates of Pain. Now I won’t tell you what Mammo-Technician is doing to my anatomy as the plates move together. It’s not a pretty sight. Once she has me in position, she gives the plates one final squeeze. (Just to prove she’s the boss?) Then as she walks over behind her Plexiglas Safety Shield, I swear to you she said, “Don’t move.” Really? Really. Where would I go? Believe me - there’s no way I can get out of your mammo-handcuffs. Then I begin wondering, is it possible? Have other ladies been successful at escaping? Hmmm. And then, right before she snaps the picture, she instructs me not to breathe. Again, is that an issue? From the time the Plates of Doom have squashed my mammo I have not been able to suck in any air. So you really don’t need to worry about me breathing. It ain’t gonna happen. Now just take your happy little picture and let me out of your vise grips.

This process of compression occurs four times – twice on each side. When you and your mammos are finished, your torso is completely red and you try to decide if your mammos look bigger because they are swollen or longer because they have been flattened beyond what you thought was actually possible. Regardless, you and your nearly see-through “gown” walk back to the dressing room with your dignity still intact, reminding yourself that you get to repeat this performance once a year for the rest of your life. Fantastic.