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April 2001 Issue

Having a Mammogram: The Untold Sisterhood Rituals

By Deborah Biskin Levine

There is so much to being a woman that we all seem to experience through trial and error. Like most members of the Baby Boom generation, my mother never told me a great deal about the "facts of life"--and I'm not talking only about sex.

She never explained much, if anything, to me about some of the weird things my body would do to me. Pregnancy came as a big shock. Not becoming pregnant--that I had figured out (after all…I watched TV and movies)--but what would happen to me after the fact. I was pretty surprised when my belly bottom transformed from an "inny" to an "outy." when hair sprouted in unexpected places while falling out of others, and when my complexion morphed into blotchy mess. Did my mother know what an episiotomy was? And if she did, why didn't she warn me? I want to be different with my own kids.

So, I'm writing the truth about Mammograms, sealing it in an envelope, and when my two daughters reach the ripe old age of thirty-five, they can pull this dusty letter out of its time capsule and read it. Then they can never say that I didn't tell them what they needed to know (and probably more than they wanted to know).

Dear Rachel and Jessica:

You're thirty-five years old now, hardly babies, but I'm going to give you some motherly words of wisdom anyway. Right now you are probably dressed in a gown that opens only from the back sitting on some crinkley paper in the gynecologist's office. In the instructions that I taped to this letter, I explicitly told you to take it with you for your yearly check-up. I hope you listened.

If things are anything like they were back in the year 2001, your doctor is going to recommend that you have a Mammogram. He will tell you that's it's not going to hurt. It is. But not that much. So do it anyway. It's scary, but cancer is a lot scarier.

However, the real point of this letter is to not to tell you about what to expect from Mammogram on a physical level but rather what to expect from a Mammogram on an emotional--maybe even spiritual level. Hard to believe--eh?

Having a Mammogram is a sisterhood experience--almost as profound as shopping for bathing suits with a friend who has eaten too much Ben and Jerry's after a long winter. A Mammogram is an occasion to bond with other women sitting together in the same rocky little boat.

This is the way it's typically done. Several women--maybe four or five--arrive at the radiology suite for the same purpose--to have their breast(s) flattened in a cancer-causing waffle iron. Even the most confident woman appears vulnerable as she fills out the forms that give consent for any or all information pertaining to any possible lumps, bumps, or nicks to be forwarded to her own doctor. If the thought hadn't occurred to her that this might be serious--filling out that kind of paperwork can be a pivotal reality test.Having a Mammogram There is usually not a very long wait in Part I (the clothed part) of the waiting room game. Soon, a young nurse, someone who has pretty new and perky breasts (believe it or not…by thirty-five…gravity may have already starting taking its toll on yours…so enjoy them while you can). and wearing one of those tortoise shell beauty parlor clips in her ponytail, cheerily calls you as a group into yet another waiting room.… This is a tactic employed successfully in many doctor's offices. The strategy here is to try to make you believe that if you move around a lot, you won't feel as if you're waiting as long--or at least that you're making some progress toward your ultimate goal--getting out without a picture of a breast lump for the family photo album.

It is at this point that Part II of the waiting room game begins. Everyone is asked to strip from the waist up ( a big change from the gynecologist office) and put on a gown that opens only from the front. It's at this point, that women begin scoping each other out--trying to make eye contact--to form a brief, yet meaningful, connection.

I have to admit that I'm unusually curious about other women's breasts when I sit in the Mammogram waiting room. There is never another time in my life when I feel as fascinated by breasts. Perhaps this is a little glimpse into the male mind.

I wonder if Mammograms hurt small breasted people as much as they do people who are as well endowed as I. I wonder why each of the other women is in this boat. Are they simply having a yearly check-up? Have any of them nursed a mother, an aunt or a sister whom has succumbed from or survived breast cancer? I wonder if any of them stood in the shower and with a soapy hand felt a breast lump? I imagine that there is someone who is sharing this waiting room with me that only has one breast under her gown.

Then it's time for Part III--or Mammogram Roulette. Each of us is called, separately into the room where the games begin. First the right breast. The technician squishes it, stretches it, compresses is until the position is just right. She jabs the equipment into your rib cage, and from behind the protective shield, she says, "hold your breath," snaps a picture, and then says "now breathe." The whole ordeal is repeated on the left.

One by one, the entourage of women returning from Part III enter the waiting room to wait again. This time, the perky one will be either the bearer of good tidings, "everything is normal, Mrs. Jones--we're just fine" (it's unclear why she uses the 'Royal We' because clearly we are not sharing our breasts with her), or unsettling news, "the doctor saw a little something, had better do an ultrasound to take a closer look." Is "a little something" a euphemism? And what does it mean?

It's during Part III that real talking begins. The bleached blonde with hazel eyes sitting across from me opens with, "my sister-in-law was forty-four when she died of breast cancer. Looks as if you are the same age. It's a good thing you're taking care of this--she never did." I sigh. "Sorry," I say.

My words feel lame. Then heavyset African American woman with a perfect complexion sitting next to me chimes in. "I had a benign breast lump last year. Scared the heck out of me. Made me take a good, long look at my life. The day after my biopsy I made some real changes. I quit my job, took a vacation and cut my hair. Looking at your own mortality makes you sit up and take notice."

There was another woman with graying hair sitting by the window, pretending to read New York Magazine. It's obvious to me by the look in her eye that she wants to share her story--but she's a little bit reluctant. Maybe she's never been here before and she doesn't know the protocol or maybe she's been here many times before and she's just too tired. I look down at my People and hear her say, "I had a mastectomy last year. They took my left breast. But that wasn't the worst of it. My husband left me. HE couldn't handle it."

The African American woman stood up, walked over to this thin but healthy looking woman and placed her arms tightly around her. I felt as if I was about ready to talk about myself when the technician walked in. Ms. Cohen she says to the gray haired woman, "the doctor saw a little something on the Mammogram and he's not sure what it is. He wants you to stay here and have an ultrasound of your right breast."

There is a collective sigh. All of our circle gathers around her, wordlessly hugs her and helps her to gather her belongings. "Is there anyone you would like me to call to be with you," I offer. "I have nobody," she says. The African American woman responds, "If you don't mind, I'll come along with you. I can't leave you alone." Strange. She doesn't even know Ms. Cohen's first name.

A few moments later the technician comes out to speak to the bleached blonde. "See you next year,"she says. A sigh of relief. The bleached blond gathers up her things and prepares to leave. Before she does, she hands me her card (am I surprised that she's a message therapist), and says, "if you hear anything about Mrs. Cohen before you leave, please give me a call." Weird. A strange connection between unlikely strangers.

I'm left alone. My "sisters" have all left me in solitude with outdates periodicals. I look down at my own left breast that looks like a road map from a couple of previous biopsies. I've never had cancer, but I've yet to have a normal Mammogram either. Every little twinge sends me into a tailspin.

Miss Perky enters the room again. "You can go now…you're fine." I'm fine. That's great. I call those who love me and we can celebrate this little victory over cells gone crazy tonight over dinner. But what about Mrs. Cohen? Where will she be? For sure…in my thoughts and prayers.

All my love,
Mommy

Deborah Biskin Levine is a frequent contributor to GenerationJ.com and Lifestyles Magazine. Her first book, Acts of Loving-Kindness (JPS) will be out in April of 2002. Recently, she co-authored a book with Dr. Louis Flancbaum and Erica Manfred entitled, Weight Loss Surgery: The Complete Guide to Gastric Bypass and Other Procedures (www.weightlosssurgeryguide.com) Additionally, Ms. Levine has essays coming out in the next issue of Olam Magazine and Modern Bride Magazine.

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