Tag Archives: mammogram

The Post In Which I Fancied Myself an NPR Reporter


It’s embarrassing, really.

The day was unlike others; unless you’re someone who gets a mammogram daily. I’m not. I was between procedures (I’m clear, it was all routine) and I had some time to kill.

The weather was clear and sunny and warm.

I was in my monster mobile and parked outside a local “Gas N Shop,” or “Petro N Go,” or “Fill N Leave,”… you know, the kind of place that sells gas, offers a car wash, bathrooms, rolling papers and Snickers bars.

I was determined to not to go in and sit in the warm, stuffy waiting room for what could be upwards of 15 minutes. The waiting rooms at mammography centers are high intensity; no one wants to go in there to prepare to stand on their tippy toes as they look away as Miriam did in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” during the scene when she and Indy are strapped to the pole while the foolish Nazis dare open the Ark of the Covenant after performing an ad hoc Hebrew ceremony (am I digressing?)… anyway, as Miriam (who listened to Indy because if she didn’t she would’ve melted as the Nazis did), you don’t want to look at your girl when it’s in this device which compresses her from a shape resembling a balloon to a pancake.

During said compression, we are reminded to hold our breath (which is already gasped) as the sing-songy operator who looks like “Pat” from Saturday Night Live (I’m dating myself) scurries to hide behind a glass wall while a half-million-dollar machine hums and clicks and releases. If you don’t get it right that time, you get to do it again. Never mind the fact that this would be considered a misdemeanor in several states were it not a medical procedure…

So instead of waiting with the other potential smashees, I chose to hide. I’m glad I did for I witnessed joy instead of anxiety; expression rather than suppression; and elation instead of deflation. Going in for a mammogram requires a certain suspension of disbelief anyway, because no sane person would want this to happen to her. So, following this thread of make believe, I pretended I was an NPR reporter. That’s totally normal, right?

I haven’t listened to my recording since that day because I think I hate my voice and also because I’m not used to recording myself. My mother, however, would have LOVED to have done this, so in my own little subconscious way, I’m loosening up a little to let more of her in. Please click on the link immediately below:

Paradise and Fiji Water

I made this recording about two weeks after Mom died and I was in a place where I needed to see the silver linings of life and to remember that life not only goes on, but that it can and does quite beautifully, thank you, with or without us in attendance.

I was talking to my friend about this experience the other day and she told me that there is no such thing as fresh drinking water on Fiji… that they get bottled water too. I wonder if it’s $3.85 a bottle there. Probably more because they need to ship it from … uh … Michigan or somewhere.

I am a firm believer that it’s up to us to see the beauty in an every day existence. I have yet to be like Wayne Dyer and say “Thank you!” before I get out of bed, but I come pretty close. I say it on the walk to school, or as I pour my coffee or as I’m having my breast compressed or as I’m watching an adorable family vacuum its car.

The little boy was “totes adorbs” to quote a friend from Buffalo, NY. His shiny black hair was cropped close, with bangs that hugged his face and curled up about an inch above his eyebrows. The dad was wearing a Reál Madrid soccer jersey and had close-cropped hair and a ready smile for his son while he was doing what dads do: playing while Mom was working. He laughed and did his best to look busy, but that little kid was just too much fun. The mom was fierce-looking; she had a classic South American face with high cheek bones and full lips. Her skin was a gorgeous bronze that set this pasty white Irish girl’s jealousy in gear. But I didn’t envy her the age of her son (been there, done that) nor the “compliance” of her husband while she’s just trying to clean out her car. Sometimes these chores are better performed alone.

Their dark teal Toyota Corolla sedan was in good condition. It looked to be the same vintage of one that belonged to a gal I met at the yoga retreat this summer. She said hers was 17 years old with close to 380,000 miles on it. To my friend, it was her ride to a Springsteen concert or to class or to the Jersey Shore and to work as an educator. But to this Mom, who looked to be no more than 21, that car was her chariot, her way to work, her son’s way to school or day care and her husband’s privilege: it had pink and lavender stickers on the back, like little wings, on either side of the trunk’s keyhole. This was a woman’s car.

I remember hearing the music before I saw the family and thought that surely it was playing for the benefit of a silver-haired couple from Mexico or Latin America. To me, there was no way that a young person would enjoy that music; there was no subwoofer bleeding or swearing pouring out the windows. How nice it was to be so completely incorrect.

I felt lucky and, oddly, not a hint of self-consciousness recording that “report”; I suppose it’s not weird these days to see someone sitting alone in a car holding a phone up to her face with her window cracked open. People do it all the time… Beats trying to do it while driving.

I enjoyed pretending I was an NPR reporter; I am glad to be sharing it with you.

Thank you.

p.s.  i feel this post was rusty. i have to say that it’s weird for me to be writing about something happy again that doesn’t focus on my sadness about my Mom. it was nice. “The show must go on!” she’d say.

Guest Blog: Breast Cancer Awareness & “Sensitarian”

Guest Blog: Breast Cancer Awareness & “Sensitarian”

Hi friends!

Today is October 1, the beginning of Breast Cancer Awareness month. It’s also the day my dear friend Sharyn is relaunching her website, Sensitarian.com, which is devoted to connecting the needs between consumers with food sensitivities and restaurants, eateries and the food industry. I personally have a temperamental belly; about seven years ago I was diagnosed with food sensitivities ranging from avocado to zucchini. How can my body be sensitive to foods that are good for me?! It’s not like I’m eating cream cheese and tootsie pops all day. So I for one am excited about the relaunch.

Sharyn was all ready to go with this site a year ago until … well, I’ll let you read what she wrote last year which ended up putting the launch on hold:

I have always loved October. I’m not so much of a summer person. It’s fall that I look forward to every year, and no month more than October. October is when the flurry of back-to-school has settled into routine. The oppressive heat and humidity dissipate, and cooler air sets in. Leaves begin to change colors and flutter to the ground.

It’s also my birthday month. The time of year when I get older. But that doesn’t excite me very much anymore, partly because, well, birthdays just aren’t my thing. I enjoy the day and all — mostly because it’s the one day when I hear from my closest friends all on the same day. I’m just not big on presents or parties to celebrate the day I was born. My own birthday was never that special, but the fact that my older sister’s birthday was four days before mine, and my mother’s birthday was the day after mine — well, sharing my birthday week made October extra-special growing up. That sense of shared anticipation and celebration stayed with me into adulthood.

When my older sister died in 1996 of complications of Juvenile Diabetes, everything changed. Her birthday became a day to bring sunflowers to the cemetery. My birthday, four days later, turned into a day to feel grateful for living the life I live, for the privilege of getting older, for becoming a wife and a mother, two things my sister didn’t have the time to do before she died.

Today is October 1, and everything has changed again. It’s exactly eight weeks since I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

My oncologist tells me that I don’t actually have breast cancer anymore, since the surgeon removed it with a lumpectomy. Technically, I am in “treatment” for breast cancer. But every doctor’s visit, every chart, every insurance filing, has the diagnosis “breast cancer” attached to it. It’s like a label I can’t un-stick.

I know how lucky I am. I know that I have the “good kind” of breast cancer. But I’m still scared. Maybe I’m still in a bit of shock, even. And all I want to do is run away from October.

October. Breast Cancer Awareness Month. As if I need to be more aware of breast cancer. The fact is that I can’t escape it. Was it always this way and I just didn’t tune in? The pink ribbons, the yogurt lids, the pink pony.

Last weekend was the Breast Cancer 3-Day in my area. I’ve been a supporter in the past, happy to help my sister-in-law and niece reach their fundraising goal when they walked a couple of years ago. I even took my sons out to cheer them on, as the course took them close by our neighborhood.

When I saw the walkers in their celebratory pink tutus, feather boas and fuchsia wigs, I’m ashamed to say that I wanted to turn my car around and go a different way home.

“I’m sorry,” I wanted to tell the walkers who were celebrating their survival or memorializing their mothers, friends, grandmothers and aunts who died of breast cancer.

I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready.

I’m not ready for Breast Cancer Awareness Month just yet. Can we put it on hold until I get through my treatment?

I’m so sorry that I can’t join in the crusade this October. I can’t get out there and walk. I can’t go “shop for the cure.” I can’t even listen to the new Martina McBride song on the radio without changing the station.

But there is something that I can do this October, this Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

I can say, “Thank you.”

Thank you to the walkers and the artists and the survivors and the donors and supporters. Thank you to the grocery stores and yogurt companies and corporations. Thank you for raising awareness of breast cancer and for all of your efforts to fund a cure.

It’s because of you that my doctor found my cancer early. It’s because of you that my treatment plan is proven. It’s because of you that I will survive.

Thank you.

Thank you, walkers.
Thank you readers, please go check out sensitarian.com and tell Sharyn she sent you! Thank you Sharyn.

Yes, Ma’ammogram – A Little Something for the Ladies and Their Strong Men


Normally I don’t curse in my blog.  I save that for the verbal spewing from my sailor-like mouth.  But this is my blog and while I don’t plan to let stream a swath of imprecations, I do reserve the right to drop an aptly placed Fbomb or other acutely necessary idiom.

Two days ago, I had my mammogram.

I call this experience a “boob smooshing” or a moment with the “cosmic toaster” because of two reasons: 1) you see stars and 2) your breast is held in a fashion that resembles a piece of Texas toast.  Don’t know what Texas toast is?  It’s larger and thicker slices of toast.  Texas toast slices are one-inch thick slices of toast. I guess everything is bigger in Texas.  Probably even the boobs.

I am healthy.  I have boobs.  I don’t care if the guys leave or not now or even if they call their buddies in to “lissen to this shit!  Molly’s talking about her ta-tas!”

I don’t care if I have to look a man in the face who reads this post and says, “Can I buy you a drink?  You know, uh, I read that post you wrote about your mammogram…it was pretty hot…” because this is a fact of life for women in 21st Century America.  It should be a procedure for women everywhere no matter where they live or their economic or demographic status, but I am about to sound political so I will stop.

Frankly you’d have to be an asshat who lives in a bloody cave to have never heard about breast cancer, mammograms and all the rest.  So dudes, deal.

That’s right, I said “breast.” How’s this: VAGINA. Are we done? Man up.

~ ~ ~

I’m a 36-C which means I must be pretty average because when I go bra shopping I can only find ugly bras in my size.

“Why do you bother wearing a pretty one… it’s just gonna come off… heh heh heh … high-five, c’mon, who’s gonna high-five me?”

Crickets. They’ll high five you.

The visit to the cosmic toaster requires nothing special other than no underarm deodorant or antiperspirant or powders. No perfume either – they want you as fresh as the day you born after the nurses cleaned all that vernix caseosa off your slimy, squirmy, and screaming body.

Men: vernix caseosa is the your baby mama’s homemade chapstick that keeps the baby’s skin from gettin’ messed up in the amniotic sac.

They also welcome you with a mint should you so desire. They ask you to not bother signing in on the form beside the sign that says “PLEASE SIGN IN AND WAIT TO BE CALLED.”

They ask you for your ID, your insurance card and your patience while they look up your records. BRACING SMILE.

After you’re done with your administrative stuff, you go sit in the waiting area. I won’t say “room” because it’s not. It’s all part of one big space.

They call your name. You go up to the lady.  She gets you a gown that opens in the back or the front depending on if you’re listening and give a crap, and she directs you to a little room no bigger than a bathhouse changing stall with a curtain in front. “Can I get you anything while you wait?” she asked.  “How about a martini,” I answered. She laughs, “I keep tellin’ ’em to get a martini bar and …” Shut up lady, I don’t care.  You asked, I answered.  Your answer wasn’t an answer, it was another sentence followed by a laugh at my answer.

I didn’t do either, so I totally missed what she asked me to do and apparently I put it on backwards.

When you’re done not putting the gown on backwards like I did Saturday, you open your not-a-bathhouse curtain and wait again.  The ladies waiting for these procedures are not particularly happy or sociable.  A lot of eyes look at the carpet or water cooler.  I hope many of them were there for the same reasons I was: the annual scan.  But I know in my gut that some were there because they are being referred for a 3D image or a secondary referral because an anomaly was found.  An “anomaly.” Most of the time, those anomalies are benign.  Sometimes they are not.  Other women are there for scans to confirm they are clear after treatment.  I am lucky.

Eventually, my name was called.

I get up, smile at the lady who laughed at my martini request and go with my technician into a darker room with a GIANT MACHINE that resembles a smaller non-insect version of that thing that burst through Vincent D’Onofrio’s body in “Men in Black.”  It’s got plates and glass and black trays with smoothed indentations where my breast was supposed to go.

The tech (it’s always been a woman for me) removed my gown and treated my right breast like a flank steak that’d been marinating in a ziploc bag in my fridge for two days.  She walked me over to the non-insect machine and firmly assisted (read: shoved) my body against its cold, plastic frame.  She moved my shoulders and firmly (again) positioned my body so that my breast is now resting on the tray.  Like an uncooked egg, it was just sitting there saying, “Hi…”

I’m not a particularly very heavy person either, you can feel my ribs under my skin, so my ribs were getting the brunt of this pressure until … until she took my arm and positioned it in a way that pulled on the skin covering my breast and then turned a knob which lowered a clear shield on top of my poor breast and pressed it to something that was so depressing and unrecognizable… it looked like a cake dish.

This is not accurate at all. This is about 2/3 compressed.
A little more… turn that dial, honey.

“That was my boob,” I whimpered.

“Don’t look, eyes up,” she said.


So then she ran behind a shield of her own while I was on my tippy toes. I was on my tippy toes because she had this tray so high to ensure that she got the best possible view of all the tissue. Whatever. Just let me out.

And then she says, get this: “Hold still. Don’t breathe.”

Um, lady, you’ve got my melon in a plexiglas vise. There ain’t no way I’m going anywhere, and the discomfort is so intense, my ribs hurt and my skin is stretched and my breast looks like something that I don’t wanna know, that you don’t need to worry about me taking a breath here.  Breathing is sort of … you know, an option?

The machine said, “Mmmmmmm zzzzing MMMM zzzing -ping” and released me.

“Breathe.” She said.

No need to tell me that either, hon. I’m already there.

She did this to the other breast.  Same pain. Same order to not move or breathe.

I’ve been down this path before; I knew she had to do one more set.

The next one is at an angle.

Many men might think of this as the “Mae West Come On Up and See Me Sometime” angle.

For me, it’s the “Holy Fuck, Someone Start My Car and Get Me the Fuck Out of This Machine Right Now” angle.

Like Jeff Leone in eighth grade, The Machine was still staring at my boobs but its trays of pain were positioned at a 45˚ angle.  The tech moved my body like a robot and I was afraid.  I leaned into the machine that looked like that insect.  My arm was positioned above my shoulder and my hand was holding a handle that those kind people at GE or Boeing or MGM of whoever it was considerately included in their design of the boob vise. I pulled in on the handle because if I didn’t I feared my breast woulda come off my body. Just tear right off: “Oops, sorry about that, let me clean that up here, I saw it fall off and roll under the door… If you could just hand me that … thank you…”

She took my move closer in as a cue to get more of my flesh in the money shot.  So she moved me in a way that actually made me whimper, “Sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln…” Now anyone of you who knows me personally knows that I reserve that phrase for truly special moments.  Moments when I’d rather say, “Good God, holy shit let me be this fucking sucks. I wanna fucking cry.”  But we’re not friends, that lady and I, and I didn’t feel comfortable letting that spew.

She did the opposite to the other boob. Then, while looking at the image she said, “Uh, come here.”

My stomach dropped.

“It’s nothing bad, but do you see how this image has more of your muscle and lower flesh beneath the breast?” She asked.

“Uh, yeah.” I said because that good image is the one where I moved in to relieve pain and the one when she stole a day of my life by giving me more pain.

“I’d like to get another one like that. Let’s do that.”

I’m such an overachiever, overperformer and people pleaser that I said, “Sure.” And I meant it.  It’s my breast health we’re talking about, so I closed my eyes and pretended to have made eye contact with the machine that I then pretended looked like Gene Kelly (why didn’t I do THAT sooner?) and let the woman go to second base with me for the fifth time.

In about 10 minutes –from start to finish– we were done; less time than dinner and a movie! I was back in my car and on my way home twenty minutes after I didn’t sign in.

I have wanted to write a blog post about this for years.  I couldn’t a few years ago because I didn’t have a blog.  I didn’t last year because I wanted to respect some people I knew who were having their own breast health challenges.  I’m glad to say that I know of no one who is having those challenges themselves. NEWS: those gals are making me laugh and rocking it out still today thanks to that mammogram.  I also wanted to write about this because it’s VERY important to do.  Women are afraid of this procedure and well, yeah, it’s uncomfortable, but it’s totally survivable.  I know when I make this appointment that I have to have a sense of humor, that it’s gonna be uncomfortable and that it will possibly save my life.  Or your life.  Or your sister’s, neighbor’s, mother’s, librarian’s, grandmother’s, aunt’s, waitress’s, cousin’s even your foe’s life.  All I can say is that if you think a mammogram is uncomfortable, try never knowing or finding out the hard way…

You say you’re afraid? Fuck that. Get it done. Don’t wait. Go. Don’t walk. Run. You have kids? Fly. Your fear can kill you. And I don’t mean just the fear in your head.

Get your boobs smooshed ladies.  Go to the Cosmic Toaster and let me know how it went.  It’s just ten minutes in the closet.  Imagine it as ten minutes in the closet with your favorite movie star.  Please.

Thank you.

Update: If you liked this post, you might like:

A Rant on Antibacterial Soaps

Do You Pee When You _____?

Living and Thriving with PMDD