Reality Check
May 9, 2006 at 4:58 It took me months to muster the courage to pick up the phone and make an appointment for my annual mammogram. Every Sunday I’d make my weekly “to do” list, and every day I’d procrastinate on making the call. I felt like a huge burden had been lifted when I finally dialed my doctor’s number, got my Pap smear last week, and had her arrange for the mammogram—today.
But relief has quickly been replaced by dread.
My mother died of breast cancer 14 years ago. Normally, I simply don’t think about it, but every year when it’s time for my mammogram, I get a reality check. I come face to face not only with the prospect of cancer but the memories of my mother’s suffering and my loss.
It makes me squirm. My stomach churns. When I woke up to gray clouds and rain today and the prospect of catching two buses to get to the clinic, I didn’t feel any better. Not only do I bring personal baggage to this appointment, but every medical first here is a mild source of anxiety because I don’t know quite what to expect.
Never underestimate the comfort of a familiar face and a friendly nurse at the doctor’s office, the confidence you place in the people who have been with you over the long haul.
The technician who did my mammograms in Virginia was an older woman and a Christian. She was professional and didn’t talk about her faith, but her office space had a bulletin board with all sorts of notes and cartoons tacked to it, including Scriptures she found inspirational or meaningful and words and facts meant to comfort her patients. Once when I was preparing for my exam in that room, I noticed she had a Post-it note on her desk calendar with a reminder to “Pray for every patient!”
Maybe some people would be uncomfortable with the idea of someone’s spiritual life and professional life intersecting that way, but I loved that she was committed to taking a moment to meditate, focus, and pray for me before doing my exam. To me, it represented the ultimate standard of care, evidence of a personal and professional commitment to my well being, a sign I wasn't just a "task" but a person.
Undressed and feeling vulnerable in a room with all my fears and memories and the cold glass plates that will compress my breasts until they ache, I can use all the comfort and care that's offered.
May 9, 2006
Reader Comments (12)
Next year I'm definitely going to do the Advil, Wordgirl. Good advice!
I did try to relax by doing some yoga breathing as I contorted myself into the "poses."
Slammogram! LOL Shirley, that's exactly what it's like.
I didn't tell the technician that if she pressed too hard my whole breast would retreat into my armpit--yes, it would fit in there, I'm sure.
The good news is that the preliminary reading of the films didn't indicate any problems, but they're automatically sent off to another doctor for a second opinion so a final report is a week or so away. I think I'm set until next year!