My Mammy

Nothing says Merry Christmas more profoundly than having a scheduled mammogram during the third week of December. The very idea of a mammogram is humiliating, painful, stressful and physically degrading – immediately before Christmas, the most hectic time of the year, adds a degree of unnecessary worry to the season. Conventional comparisons of the procedure claim it to be similar to someone pressing your breast between two cold plates and walking into the next room while you are holding your breath. And there is a great deal of truth in this observation, but the crux of the matter is the results of this test can altar your life – lump or no lump, surgery or no surgery, chemotherapy or no chemotherapy.

One can survive the x-ray and go on living the rest of the day. There is a constant parade of women going into and out of the examining rooms. Get undress, put on the gown, take the pictures and its over. It happens to all. But the instructions given to me – a parade participant – is stressful: “If we need another picture, we will call tomorrow and schedule another visit. If you don’t hear from us, the results will be sent to you in 10 to 30 days.” Sounds simple enough until you get the call the next day saying that we need to take another picture of the left one. Fear engulfs your entire being, knocks your breath right out. Why? Answer, no problem; “Just a cloudy picture that needs to be redone.” Belief or non-belief, worry or not to worry, apprehension, and anticipation of the worst seems to project that the most dire circumstances are yet to come.

But with all the faith that can be mustered from somewhere and anywhere, four days before Christmas I drive back to the clinic for “the retake.” The technician assured me it was routine but after looking at the “retake,” the radiologist decided that the right one needed another picture, different type of picture with a new apparatus. So back to the machine, the third time! Then the wait and wait and wait, while sitting in a 5 ft by 5 ft room in a hospital gown. The technician had told me; “The doctor would read all the x-rays and give me the results immediately so I would not have to wait during the holidays.” Take the small blessings when they come, but the wait is excruciatingly painful in and of itself. After an eternity of Our Fathers, Hail Marys, Glory Be’s, and an outdated Peoples Magazine in which I did not recognize any celebrity, the wait ends. The technician came back in the room and said those blessed words, “All is fine.” Then she hugged me. Hark the Harold, Joy to the World, and God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Merry Christmas!