Mammogram

This morning I went for my annual mammogram. It’s never been an issue. No history of breast cancer in my family and no “breast problems” as they delicately ask at “The Breast Center”. (How come no “Colon Center” with special snacks and pretty changing rooms?) My only breast problem over the years has been finding the right bra—too small for most really sexy push-ups but just a tad too much for going braless.

But since last night when I put the reminder and the mammo script on my calendar for the morning, I began to imagine, What if they say, “Please wait for the doctor”? What if they say, “You need to come back?” Over coffee and in the car I tortured myself with trying to imagine what I would do. Would I tell anyone? Talk to my therapist first? If I had cancer what would that mean to John? To lose the breasts he is so crazy about? Would I do chemo? How in the world could we both have cancer at the same time? Who would take care of me? What would become of us?

Before John's colon cancer diagnosis a mamogram was just a chore, something to put off or take care of. Before the day of his colonoscopy I was aware of illness and death--my family has died--but I never had to hear, "You have cancer." Now I know how ordinary those days can be and how your life --and the lives of those who love you --can change in a few words.

It didn’t help that in the waiting room of The Breast Center there were men waiting. They were accompanying their partners who did have “breast problems”. The long wait, surrounded by pink everything (Yes, fear that I will be punished for my arrogance was a possibility too), didn’t help. Finally into the room and push and pull and smoosh and tear—small breasts just don’t fit the machine-- my neck stretching to get enough chest tissue onto the plate. “Hold your breath” the technician says—as if I had even been able to take a full breath since leaving the house.