Breasts

10,000 Things You Think About During A Follow-Up Mammogram

Yes, that thing that looks like a moon is my actual breast

When your routine mammogram looks questionable, you’re sent for a follow-up mammogram and then, possibly, a sonogram and biopsy. The time between finding out there’s possibly a problem and getting to your next appointment feels like forever and gives your brain lots of opportunity to dream of nightmare scenarios.

My brain is quite good at that anyway — I’m a worrier — but this time, my brain outdid itself.

First, I have to get another series of mammograms on just the right breast. If you’ve never had a mammogram, you can’t imagine how up close and personal the techs get with you. They adjust the machine, move you into place, scoot your breast around, ask you to move your arm, and readjust your breast tissue again before deciding they have it just right. Then they apologize as they squeeze your breast flatter than you’d think it could get.

You hold your breath and try not to move as the image is captured. The women who do this work are always very nice and comforting, and they constantly tell you exactly what they’re about to do.

“I’m just going to move your tissue,” she says, and I laugh.

“I thought you were going to say you were just going to move my tit,” I say. When I heard the “T” for tissue rather than the expected “B” for breast, I thought she was going there. She laughs back and says she’s always afraid she’s going to accidentally use the wrong word.

I know she’s probably just humoring me. I’m fine with it. I wish the whole world was as gentle and nurturing as the women who make a living squishing breasts into flat slabs. I’m serious.

She says she’ll know shortly if they want a sonogram. I am sure they’ll do one, and I actually want one. Whatever is going on in there, I want to know. A few minutes later, it’s sono time. I have had one before and as I recall, it’s quick and painless.

That’s not the case this time.

The sono lady is taking forever. That probably means something bad. I want to ask her, but I know she isn’t allowed to say anything, and I don’t want to distract her for fear she might miss something important. So I curl my toes inside my loafers and dig my fingernails into the back of my neck. I’m propped into a funny position and am using my left hand to hold my head at a more comfortable angle. I have to hold my body still, but my toes and fingers are secretly moving like mad. Something has to move.

It hurts. It’s not excruciating, but it’s a little past unpleasant. That’s either because she’s pressing really hard or because there’s something really wrong or because I’m freaking myself out or because I’m a little bruised up by having my breast squished flat between two clear plates. I take deep breaths and try to think positively. What if it’s one of the more dangerous forms of breast cancer? Will my youngest grandchild remember me? Will my husband find love again? Will I have enough time to finish all the books I’m working on? (I am not good at positive thinking.)

I have a miserable cold (yes, I tested negative for COVID-19) and really want to blow my nose, but I don’t want to spread my germs everywhere in a medical facility, so I sniffle a bit behind my N95 mask and think about all the things.

I can see the image of my breast on the screen. How they can get anything useful out of these images, I have no idea. I expect her to say, “Oh, excuse me. I’ve tapped into a NASA satellite feed of the surface of the moon. Hold on — OK, this is your breast.” It really does look more like the moon. I try to think of a clever way to say something like “The Mam on the Moon” but give up. It’s not clever.

I think about saying something like that to her, but remind myself I’m never as funny as I think, and what if she misses something important because I’ve distracted her? I dig my fingernails a little deeper into my neck and flex my toes.

Shouldn’t she be done by now? The urge to ask her if these exams usually take this long is strong. I’m almost positive the breast sonogram I had many years ago didn’t take this long. Maybe it’s because that one ultimately came out fine, and this one … well, maybe it’s not going to, I think.

My younger sister has had breast cancer. So has my maternal aunt. That’s not a great family history. I had my children in my 20s and breastfed them each for more than three years, so that’s in my favor — but a friend of mine nursed four kids long-term and still got breast cancer, so there aren’t any guarantees.

I’ve written more than I ever wanted to about mammograms, because I worked for a while at an ad agency that did a lot of healthcare marketing. I’ve written scads of ads and web page copy about mammograms for hospital clients. I once wrote an entire website for a cancer hospital, so I researched all the different types of breast cancers and how each is treated and what the prognosis is for each type. I know more than I want to know.

I also know a lot about breasts because I spent a lot of years as a young mom teaching other moms about breastfeeding. I helped position babies at the breast many times, and I helped engorged moms use a pump. Breasts don’t scare me … except right now, when I am afraid that mine are going to kill me.

Around 25 years ago, I did a series of stories following a local woman as she battled breast cancer. I went with her to chemo and radiation treatments. I did not really want to take that assignment. My mom had recently died (of lung cancer) and I found it traumatic to spend so much time with another woman of about her age who was battling cancer. I google her name and am grateful to see that she is still alive and doing well.

When the sonographer brings in the doctor, he asks me how I’m doing.

“You tell me,” I say.

He has good news. I do have a couple of cysts, but he’s not overly concerned about them. I tell him I remember my mom having cysts removed when I was a child. We’ll do another sono in six months, just to be on the safe side, he says.

And just like that I’m fine again.

I stop at Target to buy a few necessities, including wine and chocolate. I’ve given up sugar except for special occasions, and this feels like one. The checkout lady asks how I’m doing and I laugh nervously. I tell her I’m doing well, and that I just had a mammogram. Turns out she’s had the exact same experience. So has the woman who was behind me in line. Thanks to my habitual oversharing, we have a moment. I’m about to whip out my phone and show them what the inside of my right breast looks like. Thankfully, I remember just in time that not everyone is as weird as I am.

I have dense breasts, which does not, unfortunately, mean firm and perky. It just means they’re hard to see through. As a result, mammograms are of limited use to me. I really need sonograms instead, but insurance only allows me to get a sonogram if a mammogram looks questionable. If I had unlimited funds, I’d say fuck you to my insurance and I’d pay for the sonograms myself. I’d also have everything inside my breasts scooped out and replaced with implants. I still need my nipples but I no longer need my mammary glands and would not miss the damned things. Not if they’re going to keep scaring me.

We women have complicated relationships with our breasts. My breasts and I have been through a lot together. At different times, they’ve been breasts and they’ve been oshies (the term my nursing children made up) and they’ve been tits.

I figure they made close to a thousand gallons of milk — thanks, oshies! They also did a good job helping me attract dates and get free drinks in bars. They’ve helped me feel a lot of sexual pleasure — thanks, tits!

They’re definitely multi-talented and useful things to have around, and I’m grateful for everything they’ve done.

I just don’t trust them that much anymore.