The Goddess Speaks
The Goddess Speaks
Today was mammogram day, and my boobs hurt. If that was indelicate, well sorry, but the truth hurts. In this case, quite a bit, thank you very much. Pressing pain
of mammogramToday I see the world in two groups: those who have to get mammograms and those who don't. Those of us who do need to express ourselves. The don'ts need to feel our pain.
But first, hear this: Mammograms are good things. If you are over age 40 or have a family history of breast cancer, you need to have one regularly. Because no matter how dispiriting and discomforting a mammogram is, an undiagnosed case of breast cancer is way worse. So pop some pain pills, take an ice pack along, and go do it.
That said, the mammogram is the most unpleasant procedure that can be visited upon a person who is not yet sick (this includes the prostate exam).
Before I had my first one, a friend told me what to expect: It's like slamming a door on your chest, she said.
The nice people at the clinic also warned me, although you had to read between the lines: "BREAST COMPRESSION IS NECESSARY to obtain the best images," the preparatory handout read, in those exact capital letters. Because of this "compression," less radiation is needed to get clear interior pictures, it also said.
So. If you are a man, or too young to have enjoyed this experience, here's how it works:
A cheerful technician (hopefully with warm hands) smooshes your breast on a flat surface. Another hard, flat surface descends mechanically, and keeps coming down, much farther than you would believe possible, until your breast is spread out, flat, about three-quarters of an inch deep. Then the tech says, "Don't breathe!" -- like you could draw breath at a time like this -- and runs around the machine to click on the radiation.
After that they turn the machine sideways and smoosh you in the other direction. And then they do the other breast.
Then you wait while they "check the pictures," the implication being that if the pictures are junk -- say, you did breathe -- they'll do it again.
You manly types are probably thinking we're just a bunch of wimpy women. Yeah, well, imagine the most delicate part of YOUR being pressed flat until it's one-quarter of its normal thickness. HA! You would pass out on the floor! Except that you wouldn't be able to reach the floor, your delicate part being entrapped at crotch-level.
"If women were in charge, we would have cones!" one of my friends proclaimed, making cone-like motions at her chest to illustrate the concept.
Well, women haven't tackled this problem yet. My theory: To make a breakthrough such as X-ray cones, you have to start young, and most young women haven't had mammograms and don't know how bad it is.
I am doing my part. I have a daughter who is extremely bright, but 28 years away from her first mammography. I described for her in exact detail today's experience, using two big, heavy books as visual aids. "OWWWW!" she said, clutching protectively at her chest.
I told her she had 28 years to invent the cones.
Betty Shimabukuro, Star-Bulletin food writer,
prefers the title of princess to goddess.
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