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 a white male, I ignored it.
Then this white male made the mistake of telling his
worrisome girlfriend.
"Do you feel a growth in my right
tit?" I asked.
"The right breast definitely seems
to be growing. You better make a doctor's
appointment right away."
"Could you possibly be any more
homophobic?" I asked.
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 one
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 C. Mary
C. 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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