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.
* * *
JUST SO YOU KNOW: Should all the guys run out and get
mammograms? No. But all the women should. Guys should check their
testicles for lumps, periodically, especially if they're over
40. The ones under 40? Face it, you'll do it anyway.
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER:
This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into
it, you're on your own.
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