My Mammogram

I’m not sure what the first sign was that I am not the typical patient at the Mercy Hospital Breast Imaging Center. Maybe it was the three women sitting in the waiting room with me, trying not to be conspicuous in their glancing up to figure out just why I might be there. Maybe it was the available choice of magazines – People, Better Homes and Garden, Redbook (that’s it). Maybe it was the registration sheet, with questions such as “Was your previous mammogram done at this clinic?” or “Have you had any bloody discharge from your breast?” or “Are you pregnant?,” or the line drawing at the bottom of the sheet of a torso of a particularly well-endowed woman where I was supposed to indicate where exactly the lump on my breast was? It was definitely by the time the clinician, almost giddy with anticipation, told me that she would have to take several images of both of my breasts because “we don’t get very many men” and so needed some comparative shots. I’d like to think that she was looking forward to feeling me up, albeit it in a quite professional way (though it’s not likely, given I’m old enough to be at least her father, plus our flirting was limited to talk of mowing the lawn, planting the garden, and the chance of rain).

The procedure itself turned out to be thankfully simple and painless. I’d been led to believe that it sometimes is more painful for males than females, but I had no pain at all, the only discomfort being the contortions required to maneuver my tiny man breasts into the optimum view of the machine. And I was surprised to get the results of the pictures soon after the shoot, and relieved that the results were good – only a benign growth (according to the images), perhaps an indication that I’m becoming a woman in my old age (or at least that was how I took whatever it was the doctor was saying). I’m still supposed to go to my appointment with the surgeon next week, if only to get his opinion about what to do about the lump (and its tenderness) – forget about it, monitor it, biopsy it, or just cut it out and be done with it. Whatever. I’m just glad I don’t have to go on some daytime talk show as a breast cancer survivor.