Girl Talk

The waiting room in the Coral section of the Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland, WA, is the grand equalizer of women. That is where you wait for your first, second, etc. through 8 millionth mammogram.

They have flowery drapes you wear over your top parts.

Today was a 2nd-run set of films, because my first showed "something we want to have a better look at", which turned out to be "folded tissue". I have the number to call to get copies of the images they took today, and I am so totally posting them. You can see my tissues, this is that kind of blog.

I sat in the waiting room, with my conciliatory jelly doughnut and starbucks-esque (but not quite) coffee, all purchased for the price of a latte (like I said, -esque but not quite) wearing my flowery drape and reading Martha Stewart. Some other woman had cornered the Fortune 400 magazine I glommed on earlier. It's okay, I've learned of collecting wire egg baskets and how to make matzo into delicious appetizers.

I looked around at my compatriots in pancaking: the mid-60's, embracing "little old lady" lady. The yuppie yoga mom. The working woman. The other working woman. The possibly part-time working woman. The way too young to be here woman (nearly girl). "Jennifer", the assistant called, and two women stood. "Um, Jennifer whose last name begins with 'L', I mean". A woman went forward, another sat down. "This waiting room is the last great equalizer", I observed, to no one in particular. A smile or two, an uncomfortable half-smile, and dead silence greeted my attempt at humor. No one was up for it.

They called my name. It was my formal name. I have met in my lifetime, personally, maybe 3 women with my name. The oldest woman and I stood up. "Um, [DD] with a 'C'". She sat down, I went through the door.

I got the same technician as I had before. I had to re-explain my piercings (how many mammaries had she seen in the ensuing two weeks?) and we concentrated on my right breast. Apparently that one was the problematic one. I got to see the digital images of the folded tissue, how it looked "suspicious". I found it weird that the thing that makes a girl feel most girly -- and I don't care who you are or what your cup size is, your breasts make you feel girly, ever since your first training bra -- could be so deadly. I thought about how I stood, one arm over the machine bracing myself, one slack, while my right breast was smashed into something resembling roadkill. I tried to concentrate on how many single dashes made up the digital numbers expressing just how much my boob was being smashed and just at what angle (hint: the number 8 has 7 dashes, the number 9 has 5, etc.). And I thought about how many women had walked into this room, in this same circumstance, with this same cheery technician, and walked out with a death sentence.

"Would you still love me with a radical double mastectomy?" I had asked GH once. "Are there any double mastectomies that aren't radical?" he replied, before the required "yes". I was palpably sweating, which is not nice, as they don't let you wear deodorant to this shindig.

Chirpy and cheery as ever, she smashed my boob flat (90 degree angle this time) and talked about eaching her teenaged (15 and 16, she must have done something foul at some time to deserve it) daughters how to drive. We chatted piercings. Then she smashed my boob at 0 degrees and the machine bit in to the sides, as it was a different machine than last time and they were essentially trying to flatten the fold. Then she smashed it again at 45 degrees.

Then I got to sit in the waiting room, that cold, unfriendly place with cold, unfriendly women, each occupied with her own thoughts of impending doom (if not discomfort) for 30 minutes.

Thirty minutes is a very long time.

She called me in again, and we looked over the screens, and the radiologist visited, and said what he was worried about was this thing on the top of my right boob. He was going to request one more screen, and then if that didn't satisfy him we were off to an ultrasound.

I went back with the cheery lady and I swear if my breast had been a dog it would have run off long and since with its tail between its legs.

Instead it quavered and was smashed once again, this time at an angle I couldn't be bothered to view or count.

I sat again in the waiting room, not so very long this time. They called my name again and the cheerful lady came in and went over the results with me again, and announced it must have been folded tissue. Come back in six months.

I have absolutely no guilt over the jelly doughnut.