Mammo Mammo Bo Bammo

For the past few days my left pectoral muscle has been super-sore. While it could be caused by that 200-lb, one-armed bench press session I did on Friday (ha!), I can't help but wonder if it's more about last week's mammogram. It's the only imitation I've done of a contortionist of late...at least, that I can recall.

I showed up at the diagnostic imaging department early, before they had re-opened after lunch. While I was the first one in and finished my questionnaire at breakneck speed (do I really need to repeat my breast history to them every six months? Don't they keep any records?) I wasn't called until a half hour after my appointment time. That meant that I got to wait in the antechamber for another twenty minutes, clutching a too-big gown around me.

It turned out that they were converting more rooms to digital and so they were temporarily down to two mammogram machines. As interesting as I find the digital mammogram equipment, I was glad I was put on a traditional machine this time around. Frankly, the digital mammogram I had last February was the most painful one ever and I didn't want to repeat that. I'm not sure whether the tech who was training someone on the machine was simply enthusiastic or that's just how this equipment is, but OW. I'd contrast it against my digital mammogram from April, except that I was so focused on the wire that they had just shoved into my breast that I really didn't give a darn about the mammogram.

I waited while they developed the film, came back for re-takes, and finally, some time after 2 pm, they said I could go. I raced across the hall to the Breast Care Center, just three minutes before my appointment time with the surgeon. Half an hour or so later, I sat clutching a too-small gown to me while a nurse practitioner tried to figure out why I was back to see the surgeon when I had just seen her a month before.

She pulled up my mammogram results, which thankfully were clear (go, me!) and then did the exam. I only saw this N.P. once before, so I didn't know how she worked. As it turned out, her physical exam was very thorough but also unique: it seemed to involve a kind of a martial arts exercise or attack shiatsu.

Not surprisingly, I have learned to zone out during these exams. Mostly it is to avoid being creeped out by some of the male doctors who feel me up. But sometimes it's to avoid a situation where I want to ask a hot N.P. for her home phone number! (Okay, that only happened once. And I actually didn't ask. But I may have blushed while giggling.) Anyway, shiatsu N.P. just cracked me up, and it's certainly better than a cursory exam where you wonder if they pressed hard enough to feel anything at all.

Peeking over onto the desk, I couldn't help but comment on the diagram they annotate for the breast exam. I said, "Wow, I may be a lesbian, but if I saw a woman who had breasts like that, I'd be scared!" She laughed and said, "Don't you think it kind of looks like Homer Simpson's eyes?" And so it does:

Yikes! Careful, or they might blink at you.

The sheet with the diagram was next to my file, which I suddenly noticed was a couple of inches thick. Mon dieu, do I really need a file that big? The N.P. said, "We have more information on you than the CIA!" Well, um, if the CIA really stood for Chest Inspection Agency like on those T-shirts, then yeah.

But wait, it wasn't over. The N.P. was concerned about the solid circle of red on my breast, at the incision site. I knew that was from radiation, from when they did the boosts. Everyone says I shouldn't still be red but, you know, given my alabaster complexion, I'm not surprised that I am. However, she was worried about infection, especially given that it took my incision five months to close (sorry for the gross-out) and so she went to find the surgeon.

She returned with both my surgeon and a med student. The exam room is small, so everyone had to shuffle around a bit. All three women stared at my breast from the front. The surgeon frowned at the red circle. "Lets have her lie down," she suggested. "If it is from radiation, it should fade with gravity."

I leaned back while the three women shuffled around behind me. Everyone peered closely. The surgeon shifted my breast around a little. I hummed in my head. Then the surgeon helped me up and said to the N.P., "Let's do a round of antibiotic."

The N.P., recalling my earlier conversation with her, asked me how many rounds of Keflex I'd been on so far (since April's surgery). "Five," I answered cheerfully.

"Nevermind!" said my surgeon. "We'll just keep an eye on it instead." She told me to call them if I got fever or chills, or if the red area grew or darkened. Which, you know, I'm sure won't happen because I'm just red.

Then the surgeon and the student shuffled back out while the N.P. made notes for me to come back again, with another mammogram, in six months.

"You know," I told her, "When I see my radiation oncologist in two months, she is going to say, 'Why is this red?' Like I should know!"

The N.P. smiled crookedly and said, "Radiation oncologists never think radiation causes any problems."

"Yeah, I know," I said with a half laugh, while I shrugged my shirt over my head. As I did this, the underside of my breast tugged a little, from where the skin fell off after radiation.

All in all, it was a pretty uneventful visit, which is the best kind to have when you visit a cancer center. It did take four hours and twenty minutes by the end, which meant $18 in parking fees. I'm glad the next visit on my calendar is to the place with free valet parking. I really miss that.

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