“I can feel some natural lumps,” my doctor informed me. “Let’s set up a mammogram for you to establish a baseline. This way, I’ll know which lumps are normal and which ones need attention.” Oh, how delightful. “Naturally lumpy.”
At 37 years old, I had never really considered the inner landscape of my breasts, but apparently, they were akin to an old mattress or an improperly cooked bowl of oatmeal. The thought of a mammogram sent chills down my spine. I envisioned a cold, dim room where an unempathetic stranger would shove my chest into a terrifying contraption that would squash and flatten my poor, lumpy girls into agonizing boob pancakes.
But you know what? It wasn’t like that at all. The room was warm and inviting, and the technician was friendly and gentle. The procedure was quick and mostly painless—maybe slightly uncomfortable—but it was over in a flash. The experience was completely uneventful.
That was nearly four years ago. Since then, I’ve spoken to several women who are avoiding mammograms due to the same fears I had. So, for anyone out there who dreads the Melon Masher like I once did, let me share my latest experience to show you just how unscary the whole thing can be.
The waiting room was quiet except for a bewildered elderly couple flipping through a magazine. (“Who is this Katy Perry? Is she related to that guy from Friends? No, that’s the other one…”)
When the door opened, a technician named Lisa called my name. Well, she tried. You see, I have one of those hyphenated names, and Lisa stumbled over both parts. I chuckled and said, “Close enough!” (That was a stretch—she definitely did not get it right.) I tried to pronounce my name clearly without sounding condescending, and she glanced down at my file in confusion. “Oh,” she said, attempting to match my pronunciation with what she saw in front of her. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries,” I replied, mentally reminding myself not to annoy the person about to crush my assets. “I’m used to it.”
“I’m sure you are. Right this way, Ma’am.”
(Ma’am! Just another thing I’m getting used to…)
I followed her to a changing room where she instructed me to remove everything from the waist up, assuring me there was a gown on the shelf that didn’t need tying. The gown was thin and slightly stiff, with a faint bleach scent. When I stepped out, Lisa glanced at me and laughed. “Well, um, Ma’am, I’m not sure what you think we’re photographing today, but you might want to flip your gown around.”
I’d put it on backward! Oops. If I wanted my lumpy girls to be accessible for inspection, I better fix that.
And there it was—the Breast Pressing Machine. It looked surprisingly sleek with rounded edges that made it seem less intimidating. Lisa guided me on where to stand and positioned my breast onto the machine.
You might wonder if it feels strange being half-naked in front of a stranger, but honestly, it’s not weird—unless you make it weird. Medical professionals are skilled at distraction, chatting about the weather or the latest movies. One OB-GYN even got my entire work history out of me during a routine exam. So, no, it’s really not awkward. Lisa wasn’t judging; her interest was purely professional, and I promise she’ll feel the same way about you.
She got me situated on the machine, and before I knew it, I was flattened into a…well, a boob pancake.
And now for the big question: Does it hurt? For me, not really. It’s less painful than stubbing your toe or getting lemon juice in a paper cut. It’s even less painful than stepping on Legos, which many of you probably do daily.
Once Lisa was satisfied with my pancake situation, she retreated behind the safety barrier—seriously, I think that’s the technical term. From her safe zone, she reminded me not to move and said, “Don’t breathe! Don’t breathe! Don’t breathe!”
Let me tell you, folks, you’ll never want to breathe more than when someone tells you not to. Maybe it’s a natural “I can’t breathe” rebellion against authority. The rest of the exam was quick and uneventful. Plop it on the machine, flatten it down, retreat to the barrier, “Don’t breathe!” and done. I did need a do-over for one of the twins because I accidentally breathed. Don’t judge me!
So, you see? Mammograms are nothing to fear. Just remember:
- The gown opens in the front.
- It won’t be weird unless you make it weird.
- Don’t breathe! Don’t breathe! Don’t breathe!
Everything else is a breeze. You know what’s scarier than the Breast Pressing Machine? Breast cancer.
I’m pleased to say my results were normal, but many women aren’t so fortunate. If you can, if you have a family history, or if you’re over 40, just do it. It will likely be an uneventful hour out of your day—but it could save your life. Who knows, maybe you’ll have your own amusing encounter with the Boob Buster. If so, I’d love to hear about it. You can even call me Ma’am.
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Summary:
This piece recounts a humorous yet informative experience regarding mammograms, dispelling common fears associated with the procedure. It emphasizes the importance of regular check-ups for breast health, encouraging readers to overcome their anxieties and prioritize their well-being.