Taking another deep breath, I place my purse in the locker. Take off my jewelry. Strip off my shirt and bra. I didn’t wear deodorant today, but I take a wipe out and wipe down my under arms anyways because I sweat on the way here and I’m anxious. I pick up the pink robe and tie it in the front like she indicated. I make sure all of my clothes are in the same locker with my purse, locking the door and taking the key with me. It has one of those rubber arm bands attached to it, so I can stretch it around my wrist. Leaving the room, I take a seat in one of the waiting chairs outside of the imaging rooms. These chairs aren’t cushioned. There’s another TV on the wall playing the same home improvement show from the lobby. A few other women are seated here as well. I see one woman on her phone and immediately regret leaving mine in the locker. It would’ve been a great distraction.
Instead, I try to quiet my mind by paying attention to the show where they’re renovating a house for a couple. My handsfidget with the wristband of the key. It has those spirals that perfectly fit into each other so I can push them all together and then pull them apart. I absentmindedly toy with the band while staring at the TV, but not actually absorbing anything I’m watching. My mind wanders and bounces. From fear to anxiety to loneliness. To anger at myself for picking a fight with Chase. It would be nice not to go through this alone. On the other hand, I don’t want to burden anyone with what’s happening inside these walls today. Not Chase. Not my friends. I could’ve told Taylor the other night, but I wasn’t ready.
Every time it was on the tip of my tongue, I couldn’t get it out. Speaking it into existence made it real, and I was still struggling to come to terms with it myself. If the scans were negative last year, then why am I here today? Why am I back in the same place a year later doing the same testing? Why is it me? Is this my reality for the rest of my life? Yearly checks to make sure they weren’t wrong last year? It’s not fair.
Air rushes from the vents overhead and a shiver runs through me. I pull the gown tighter around my body, crossing my arms to ward off the chill. Radiology techs come and go, calling the women that were sitting in the waiting room with me and leading others out down the hall where I came in. Finally, another tech in pink scrubs calls my name and leads me to the mammogram room. She tells me I can take a seat while she asks me a few questions and sets up the machine. She asks for my date of birth, why I’m there today, what side the lump is on, if I’ve had a mammogram before. She explains the risks and the procedure then asks me to sign the paperwork before she begins.
“Okay, now I’m going to place markers where you said the lump is so we can focus on that area. I’ll also place a marker where they did the last mammogram so we can check both areas. If you’ll open the gown and take your right arm out to expose your right breast, we can start there.”
Untying the gown slowly, I drop the right side and let my arm fall out, exposing my breast to the woman. It’s cold anduncomfortable in this room. Having someone else fondle my breast is weird. It’s all clinical and detached, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
“Can you show me where the lump is?” she asks.
With shaky hands, I point to the top right side of my right breast where the doctor found the lump. Clearing my throat, I add, “There were actually two spots that she found.” I knead around my breast until I find the spot and hold my finger there for the woman to place the marker. She replaces my finger with her finger to make sure she feels it. I catch the slight crease in her eyebrows when she feels it. She places the little sticker over the lump and then asks for me to find the second lump.
I feel around the underside of my breast, but I can’t pinpoint exactly where the lump is. I start getting frustrated and feel the tears begin to well in my eyes. A cold sweat breaks out over my body and anxiety of not being able to pinpoint the problem area mounts.
“I— I can’t find it. I think it was somewhere around here,” I say flustered and giving up.
“Okay, that’s fine. Let me try,” she says, both soothing me and asking for permission. I nod quickly and wipe the tears from my eyes. She palpates my breast a few times in the area I indicated.
“I’m not really sure either,” she says, “but let’s place the marker here and we’ll take a closer look on the scan. Does that sound good?”
I nod again, and she places the marker.
“Were there any concerns with your other breast?” she asks.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“We’ll start with the right and then we can go to the left after that. It should be easy.”
She wipes down the machine and then beckons me forward. It looks like an oversized microscope attached to a column. There’s a flat plate on the bottom of the machine for my breast to sit on. She lifts my breast and places it on the plate, telling meto move closer as she pulls my breast away from my body and fits it on the plate. The machine is cool against my skin where it presses into my ribcage. Once my entire breast lays on top of the plate, she tells me to pivot the left side of my body away from the machine. She manipulates my breast in the correct position on the bottom plate.
“Lift your right arm and place it on the side of the machine.” I do as she instructs, resting my arm along the top of the outer portion of the machine. She continues to clamp down the top plate until my breast is squished between the two plates. It hurts slightly, but more discomfort than true pain. When she is satisfied my breast is flat enough and in the right position, she walks back over to her computer, clicking a few buttons to power up the machine. She tells me to hold my breath for a count of ten while she takes the images. I inhale a deep breath and hold it, counting down in my head as the whirl of the machine gets louder.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The sound echoes through the room and then there’s silence.
“You can breathe now,” she says, coming back over to unclamp my breast and reposition it to catch a different angle. She repeats the action again, compressing my breast down tight, telling me to reposition my arm. Reposition my body. She goes back to the computer, tells me to hold my breath and the whole process starts twice more.
