Vidalia and the Mammogram

I went to the huge complex of hospital for a mammogram yesterday.

One of my cute young friends . . . who has just turned thirty . . . asked why in the world I would get a mammogram. No lumps or concerns. No. I'm just almost forty. And that's when you get mammograms.

So I arrive at the huge complex o'hospital and find the building I'm suppose to check into, a whole floor assigned to "breast care". I turn in my forms. I try to knit but before I can get a row in they have called me for the questions. Why the person who took my form can't ask me the questions (what is your name? what is your address? what is your birth date? what is the top velocity of an African swallow?) I don't know. So back to knitting and again before I can finish the row they call me and send me to the original person who took my form.

"So you're Vidalia?" "No. I'm Emily." And then the first form woman starts chatting about how she should know that I'm Emily because I'm not ninety. We stand. They call Vidalia again. And again. And Vidalia comes rolling up.

Vidalia is wearing a windbreaker (it was 92 degrees outside at the time), an orange t-shirt, a big brimmed cotton hat, pull on pants and tennis shoes. And she is doing a monologue about how crappy it is that she has to have a mammogram. "I'm too small" she says, head motioning toward her chest. She talks down the short hallway and during the first form woman's speech about what we are supposed to do in the dressing rooms. And this would be okay, except that I need to know what to do . . . this may be Vidalia's last mammogram, but it's my first. Vidalia, busy with her complaints, tries to join me in the dressing room, knocking the door in with her walker but the first form woman redirects her. I am now wondering if Vidalia should be alone. Maybe she should be in the dressing room with me.

I "disrobe to the waist", fold up my t-shirt and bra and stuff them into my knitting bag rather than using the lockers. When I am done, I am supposed to take a clipboard and fill out another form. I don't dally and just as I put pen to paper in the interior waiting room, they call my name. There are seven other ladies, all "disrobed" in green, waiting I assume. How can I be first. "Shouldn't I fill out this form first?" "Oh. Yeah. (sigh) We'll come back."

The form takes me ten seconds. I only have to check four boxes. No problems, nothing to check for, no discharge, no history. I try to find the person who came for me ten seconds ago and am shooed back into the interior waiting room by that same person. "We'll come and get you." Whatever. Vidalia is done now, but can't carry the form with her walker. The closest of the seven women gets up to help her and Vidalia immediately takes her seat. So I move so the displaced woman can have my seat. "Emily?"

We go into a room with two computers and something that looks like the robot from the torture scene in Star Wars. I am told to sit and that she is going to find another room for me. Evidently my boobs are too big for this torture robot and we would want to do several "takes" and there is a torture robot with a bigger "plate" somewhere. Five minutes staring at the hospital "Service, Attitude, Ownership, Excellence" screen saver and I'm being taken to another room. With a bigger plate.

Basically, for those who have never had a mammogram, you get topless and lay your boob on a plate. They then squish said boob to their liking with a clear plastic lid. Like fitting one boob into one of those ziploc disposable containers (that we don't really throw away, but wash out and reuse for chili over and over, killing tupperwear) . . . but a container just a bit too small, so the word ziploc gets dented into, well, in this simile, your boob. Oh, and they had me hold the other one "out of the way". So me, topless, one breast mooshed into a torture robot from the Princess Leia scene in Star Wars, the other breast being held out of the way. Oh, and I'm bending my knees slightly. Which is all well and good. Not embarrassing or uncomfortable at all.

"Okay. Stop breathing." Stop breathing? Stop breathing? The position is so uncomfortable that holding my breath does seem pretty simple, if not natural. And there is a "rrrrrr-ing" sound. It seems endless. And then she lets my boob out of the robot.

We do this three more times . . . the last two times with me hugging the robot in addition to holding my other breast "out of the way". The last two times are much more painful, plate digging into my armpit so the not breathing thing is even easier. I have to concentrate to start breathing at one point. And then I have to wait to make sure that everything "goes through" but I get to but my green robe back on and stare at the inside of my breast on a computer screen. After a confirming "beep", I am asked if I have any questions . . . and all of my questions are answered with "they'll call you" . . . so I am left wondering why they asked if I had any questions. "We don't do any diagnosing here . . . we don't even look at the films." Great. So what else would I have questions about? Where's Vidalia? When will they call me? Where did you get these fetching green robes? Did you mean for that to look just like the torture robot in Star Wars?

After determining that I only had questions that they couldn't answer, I was told to follow the signs back to the dressing room, which then had signs about the hamper, and the hamper had signs about the exit. I don't have to go back for another three years . . . unless they call me, which I'm trying not to think about.

I have no idea how it went with Vidalia.