Tits to the Test: My First Mammogram

Putting the humor back in cancer screenings.

To hear this essay read by Amber, listen (in the dark) here:

Darklings,

Recently, I turned forty and was told by my doctor that it was time to get my first mammogram, a potentially lifesaving test that can help detect breast cancer. Forty?! I thought, But that’s so . . . young. As it turns out, breast cancer is now considered by many to be a young person's disease, affecting people earlier in life than ever before. Allow me to walk you—tit by tit, if you will—through my first mammogram.

At the hospital, a nurse called my name, and I was led from the waiting room to a private area to undress from the waist up. I replaced my clothing with the hospital gown that was provided: an open-front style instead of the breezy-backside standard. From there, I joined a few other women donning matching medical gowns sitting in a small, adjacent room with dark carpeting, faux leather chairs, and soft, Enya-like music playing overhead as if we were at a spa. (We kind of were, just for a very different kind of deep tissue massage.) Two older women sitting across from me talked about the legacy of Bob Dylan, how he’s the greatest songwriter of all time, that their friend Janet didn’t really agree, and they were appalled. I wanted to cut through these dispatches from the boomer generation to talk about something current and exciting, like Scandoval, but I was, perhaps thankfully, called in for my exam. (Sorry, but I’m Team Janet. I love Bob Dylan, but he is not the greatest songwriter of all time. One of, yes! But not thee.)

Inside the exam room, I met the mammographer, Laura Lee, who would be giving me the exam. I love the word “mammographer.” It makes me feel like she and I are going to listen to vintage records together on her couch, and I’m going to learn all about how polyvinyl chloride is transformed into sound—that it’s actually she who is the expert on the greatest songwriters of all time, and together, over martinis and a butter board, she will share her wisdom on the art of Mammographing. (Not a word, readers, I know, but I don’t care. I’m a poet; I make up words for a living.) 

Once the exam began, everything happened very fast; it was obvious my mammographer had a ton of expertise. I pictured hundreds, if not thousands, of breasts over the years, cradled in her arms or clinging to her hips like newborns, as if from a Jurgen Ovens’ painting from the 1600s. Maybe she too has thoughts on Ariana and Katie’s sandwich shop’s name. I wanted to ask her, but she was in the moment, too busy putting her brilliance to work on my chest.

The x-ray machine itself looked like a giant microscope with two lucite trays in the middle. I’m told to partially disrobe, taking one arm out of the gown to expose one boob at a time. Laura Lee asked me to stand as close to the machine as possible while she loaded my first breast onto the clear tray, like a butcher putting ground beef on a scale. “Lean your whole breast in,” she instructed me, “then pull your head and shoulders as far back as you can.” This is performance art at its finest, I thought. 

The two trays slowly pushed down on the top and bottom of my breast as the mammographer scooped up every last inch of my boob, like her hands were spatulas getting the last drops of pancake batter out of the bowl. The trays sandwiched my breast, lightly at first, before squeezing tighter in three short, concise presses that let me know the most intense part of the exam was near. No longer a sandwich and now more of a pressed panini fresh from a George Foreman grill, my flattened tit remained in this final, tight press for just 8-10 seconds before the trays separated, and I was free. The discomfort and mild pain I felt was offset by how funny my boob looked smashed there between the clear plastic, like a cartoon character from The Ren & Stimpy Show that had been run over by a truck. The process was repeated again on the other side—let’s call it the B side—and it was all over and done in a matter of minutes.

After the exam, I asked Laura Lee if she’d be comfortable snapping a picture of me in front of her stallion of a machine without my gown on. “If you’re comfortable, I’m comfortable,” she said. Something there is about you, I thought, that strikes a match in me. I dropped my medical gown to the ground and cupped my boobs, and we took the picture. 

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My results from the exam came back negative for cancer, but I did learn that my breast tissue is dense, which makes it harder for a mammogram to detect abnormalities. Additional testing (like an ultrasound or MRI) can be lifesaving for those who have dense tissue; advocating for yourself and your health in these moments to make sure you receive thorough, conclusive testing can make all the difference. In the end, I’m grateful to science for this quick and fairly easy test to detect breast cancer, and I'm especially grateful for the art of mammography. 

For more information about breast cancer, preventative measures, and questions to ask your doctor, visit www.komen.org.

Find financial programs and low-cost or free screenings in your area:
National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program
American Breast Cancer Foundation Community Partnership Program
Komen Financial Assistance Program and Resources