Mammograms - Are They Worth the Pain?

As I tiptoed past that dreaded fiftieth birthday, I made a mental checklist of all those things fifty-year old women should have done and have yet to do. I colored my gray hair yet again, made myself do my daily walk, took my medication religiously and called the doctor to make an appointment. Making an appointment for my annual physical didn't cause me any anxiety, as I expected the same routine I'd had the forty-nine years before. I was surprised, therefore, to hear some new tests being ordered, and those dreaded words like "colonoscopy" and "cardiac stress tests" were a bit surprising, but not alarming. No, the test that made me cringe to think about it again was the annual mammogram.

I have large breasts, which means the sweet, angelic, devil-disguised mammogram technician gets to crank those two trays extra tight, and visions of my breasts being run over by the sixteen wheels of a tractor-trailer rig always spring to my mind. Begrudgingly, I admitted that precaution would overrule my phobia, and I agreed to the mammogram, but not before explaining a few things to my doctor.

I sat up on the examining table, pulled the poor excuse for a gown together and said, "I hate the idea, but I'll do it, because my husband won't rest easy until I do. You see, his first wife died of breast cancer at thirty-seven. I'll do it for him."

My wise doctor peered at me for a few seconds over his badly smudged glasses, cleared his throat, and said, "So your husband cares more about your breasts than you do?"

I didn't know what to say. On my long drive home, I thought about what his question. What did I really think about my breasts? How would I feel if I lost them? Like most women, I had taken them for granted. I'd even had plenty of days when my back hurt, or they got in a way of a golf swing, that I thought to myself, I wish I didn't have these things, but what if that happened? My breasts have been with me for a long time.

I thought back to the days as a pre-teen when I used to check out other girls to see if they had them yet, and then go home and look longingly in the mirror praying that wishing hard enough would make them grow. I'd turned so red in the face when I finally asked my mom if we could go buy a training bra, and then I'd stuff tissues in the flat little bra and look in the mirror at my silhouette with such pride at what was to come. Then they started growing, and growing, and soon it was obvious to everyone in the seventh grade that I had too much up front when compared to the other girls, which was horrible embarrassing for a thirteen year old. The embarrassment turned into a sense of pride as I grew older, when I realized I had not only developed breasts, but power as well, as was obvious on the faces of the teenage boys who seemed to grow red in the face and fidgety when I jiggled through gym class.

Then I grew up, married, had a baby, and the first time I put that baby to the breast to nurse, I felt such a motherly feeling from the extra hormones that I burst out crying, cuddling my baby close to me. I was a woman. I was a mother. It was an overwhelming but wonderful feeling.

Through the years, even though my breasts had been my friends for such a long time, I began to take them for granted. As a divorcee in my forties, I met my husband-to-be and heard his story of his late wife's battle with breast cancer, I cried with him over coffee as he described the ordeal they had faced. I offered him my sympathy and a shoulder when he needed one to cry on, but I had never really personalized his story to something that could ever happen to me, even though I knew the odds.

That day after my trip to the doctor, on the drive home, I came to a startling realization. I wanted to keep them. I wanted to keep them badly enough to let them be poked, prodded, and squished between glass plates while I held my breath and prayed for relief. They were important to me, and even more important to me than they were to my husband or my doctor. After that day, I never again took them for granted. From that day forward, I never forgot a monthly self-exam or my annual mammogram. I knew I had to take care of my friends.