The noise from the machine quiets again and she asks, “Are you doing okay?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and croak out a soft “yes.”
“You can take your arm down. We’re done with this side.”
Slowly, I lower my arm from the machine as she releases my breast. Once freed, I slip the gown back over my shoulder and cover my right breast.
“We’re going to do the left side now,” she says, changing out the film plates.
I shrug the robe off my left shoulder, removing my arm and exposing my left breast. She asks me to step closer to the machine and lifts my breast onto the plate again, repeating the same instructions as before. Turn the right side of my body away from the machine. Step closer. Closer. Breathe in. She cranks the lever to lower the plate.
“Lift your left arm and rest it on the machine.”
Cranking.
Flattening.
Pressure until the slight tinge of hurt.
“Okay, hold still.” Clicking of keys on the keyboard. Instructions to hold my breath. A deep inhale for ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“You can breathe.”
The repositioning of my breast on the plate to get a different angle. More cranking. Flattening. I’m going through all the motions, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m disassociating as we repeat the imaging again and then again.
When she finishes with the last image, she unhooks the machine and frees my breast. I quickly cover up and tie the gown, crossing my arms in obvious discomfort.
I feel exposed.
Bare. Raw. Vulnerable.
All emotions I’m not comfortable with and especially not around strangers or in public.
“I’m going to show these images to the radiologist. You can just sit tight for a bit. I’ll let you know if they need to do an ultrasound as well.” She leads me back out of the room to the small waiting area where I was before. The hardback chairs. The home improvement show on the TV. Other women waiting for their own exams. I sit in silence, exchanging a polite smile with the woman across from me. Hoping—dreading—that an ultrasound will be next.
The hallway is abuzz with movement. Nurses and technicians coming in and out, calling new patients back, instructing them on how to undress. Other patients finishing their exams, re-dressing and leaving. Rinse, wash, repeat. Finally, a new nurse, again in pink scrubs—they must love pink around here—calls me back for the ultrasound.
I knew it would come to this.A pit forms in my stomach.
She has my chart and guides me into the dark room. There’s a hospital bed against the wall covered in sheets. The ultrasound machine sits beside it. She instructs me to lie back on the bed and to let the gown fall open. I don’t have to take it off this time. She doesn’t talk very much, she just goes through the motions. She boots up the computer, checks the gel, clicks around to open my chart. She confirms my name and date of birth. Placing a washcloth on my chest just below my breast, she says, “I’m going to have you raise your arm and rest it above your head.” I do what she says, and she nods when my arm is in the right spot.
