Me and my mammogram
(my breast cancer scare)

What a week. I dubbed 100 CDs for comedian Mary Carouba, recorded another commentary for NPR, bought a Takamine guitar on Ebay and scheduled a mammogram.

What? What the fuck did he just say? Don't be alarmed. My ovaries are fine.

Last week, I went to a medical facility for a mammogram to learn if I had breast cancer. Two months ago, I discovered a lump in my right breast, but being white male, I ignored it. Then white male made the mistake of telling worrisome girlfriend.

"Do you feel a growth in my right tit?"

"The right breast definitely seems to be growing. You better make a doctor's appointment right away."

"Could you possibly be any more homophobic?"

Reluctantly, I scheduled a trip to the People's Clinic in Austin, a facility that takes anyone without medical insurance. I don't have medical insurance, not so much because of the money, but all the trick questions they ask on the forms, questions such as, "How much do you smoke?" or "How much do you drink?" or "Have you ever considered climbing a tower with a high-powered rifle?"

After filling out the admittance forms, I was ushered into a room where I was to meet with Dr. C. As I waited, I heard two men outside the door, doctors I guess.

"Okay, here's how it is with breast cancer in men. It's very rare, but it can spread much more quickly in men if it occurs."

I wanted to yell out, "The patient can hearrrrrrr yewwwwww!" Instead, I decided this must be some new psychological technique.

The door opened and a young, red-haired doctor entered, Dr. Steve, a medical student in residence at the clinic. Dr. Steve also holds a Ph.D. in neural research and hails from the Los Angeles area. That last bit of information made me suspicious.

"You're telling me there are intelligent people from Los Angeles with advanced degrees? Now that's news." No visible response. He started poking around at my right breast. "Doctor, I'm getting wood. Is that normal?" Chilling pause followed by nervous laughter.

Later Dr. C. came in and examined my breasts as well. I have to admit, I was feeling a little awkward about having a man feel me up, but having one guy feel me up while the other watched relaxed me. Now it was a lot less like a medical procedure. Now it was more like jail.

"Well, there's definitely a lump there, so we'll have to schedule a mammogram."

"Oh." (Pause.) "Could I get a prescription for Viagra, too?" I figured if I was going down, I'd go down swinging.

Dr. C. sent me to a nurse so I could fill out more forms and schedule my mammogram for the next day. The nurse set the appointment then warned, "Be sure not to use any deodorant tomorrow. Deodorant messes up the test. Just use soap and water."

I fixed a stare at the nurse and said in a slow, deliberate voice, "I never use soap and water." Another chilling pause followed by nervous laughter.

The next day, white male went to get a mammogram. White male sensed that an evening gown might be over the top, so white male opted for the homeless look - maroon sweat pants, a powder blue wife-beater shirt, a black trench coat and a black Austin Film Festival baseball cap.

When I got to the medical facility, not a soul was to be found in the building.

"Anybody here? Anybody here? White male in the house." I finally found a candy striper at the top of the stairs. (Does anybody know why candy stripers went from being 16 years old to 116 years old?) She looked at me with that oh-my-god-we're-all-going-to-die look.

"If you go back to the lobby, someone will be there to help you." Translation: Please, please go away.

White male went back to the lobby and waited five minutes until gorgeous babe showed up. White male was in a foul mood, until he realized he might have the time of his life. For white male was a novelty item in this clinic.

"Are you Mike Jasper?"

"I am."

"And you're here for a mammogram?"

"Yes."

"It'll be five or ten minutes."

"Fine," I said. "Say, have you ever had your prostate checked?"

"Ahhhh, we don't do that at this clinic."

"Just a joke."

She laughed. "So I heard you right then."

Five minutes later, I was taken to a room where some medical contraption awaited me. Another pretty woman, Patty, came in and told me to take off my shirt. She was my mammogrammer, I guess.

Here's what happened: Patty grabbed my right breast and squeezed it into the machine, as two steel girders clamped the tit tightly together. Once secured, Patty told me to hold my breath while she took a picture. She took three or four pictures of each breast. The procedure took me 15 to 20 minutes and cost me 50 bucks.

Fuck me, I usually pay 100 bucks for that.

Mammograms aren't that bad, if you're male. My girlfriend and every other woman I know warned me it was going to hurt. It did not hurt, but I kept thinking of comedian Mary Carouba. Carouba is to breasts what Bill Gates is to money. An impressive endowment. I could see where the procedure might be an amazing hassle for her.

"You gonna wanna pull in the industrial-strength mammogram machine, nurse. (beep, beep, beep) Lordy, we gonna need both of them (beep, beep, beep)."

After my mammy, I was off to ultrasound, a comparatively boring process. A wand is dragged across your breasts and the inner muscular tissue is displayed on a video screen. Frankly, I didn't even care for the trailers. But the nurse said everything looked fine and that's all I wanted to hear, with the possible exception of, "Wow, do you work out?"

I went to the lobby and was told the results would be back in four days. Then I reached into my pocket for a coupon.

"I found this coupon at the People's Clinic," I said. "It says you're running a special for mammograms, only ten dollars."

"Yes, but that's only valid for women."

"I see. Well, I guess that's payback for all the cheaper male haircuts I've been getting over the years."

I left the clinic and went home to start my four-day drunk. I knew I was going to write a column about this experience (could there be any doubt?) but I wasn't sure if it was going to be one big funny column or a series of maudlin columns for the rest of my life.

Tuesday night, Halloween no less, I got the news: No cancer. I called up my brother to tell him the news, and I was a little manic.

"The doctor says I don't have cancer. Yes!"

"That's great news, Mike."

"Yes! More good news. When I told him I smoke two packs a day, he said I could probably kick that up to three or four packs."

"What?"

"Yes! Yes! And he said I should continue drinking heavily to relieve stress."

"He never said that."

"Yes he did! Yes he did! And do you know why?"

"Why."

"Because I don't have cancer, baby. That's why."

"I'm hanging up now."

After the phone call, I went into the back yard to smoke a cigarette and stare at the Halloween sky. Dark storm clouds huddled together menacingly, like an army preparing for battle. I could see where the rain would eventually come and drench me, but for the time being I was warm, dry and safe.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.