Turning 40 didn’t faze me. Honestly, it’s probably because my maturity level hovers around that of a 9-year-old who frequently ends up in trouble at school. I still chuckle at silly jokes, and when someone trips, I’m the one cackling in the corner. Yes, I’m a bit immature.
However, a month ago, reality hit me squarely in the face, and it was quite the wake-up call. This revelation came in the form of an innocuous envelope. Despite my fair share of irrational fears, I hadn’t dreaded an envelope since I was 17, anxiously awaiting college acceptance letters.
As I sifted through the mail, I stumbled upon this ominous piece of correspondence and opened it, blissfully unaware of what awaited me. While I can’t recall the exact wording, it was something along the lines of:
“Hey, it’s time to face facts! You’re getting older, and older women need mammograms. You with me?”
In reality, the letter was surprisingly polite, resembling an awkward teenager trying to strike up a conversation:
“As women age, it’s crucial to keep an eye on your health. Since you’re stepping into a new chapter of life, scheduling your first mammogram would be wise.”
My initial reaction was disbelief; I thought women were supposed to start getting mammograms at 45! Surely, there had been a mix-up, and I was mistaken for someone else—perhaps a dowdy grandma with sagging breasts. A quick search on Google revealed that overweight women should start earlier than their more fit counterparts. Thanks a lot, healthcare system. Now I’m not only old but also out of shape!
For those of you who have already navigated the world of mammograms, you might think I’m overreacting. However, there’s a critical backstory. When I was a teenager, I had a rather traumatizing experience when I accompanied my mom to her mammogram appointment.
If you’re wondering why on Earth a teenager was in the room during her mother’s procedure, I’m just as baffled. Perhaps my mom thought it would be a bonding experience, or maybe she wanted to scar me for life. I vividly remember her screaming in pain as the technician pressed down on her breast.
Reluctantly, I scheduled my own mammogram and anxiously counted down the days until my turn for the “boob squishing” arrived. On the day of the appointment, I drove there, offering my breasts a few reassuring words—they’d only have to endure the discomfort for a moment. After checking in, I changed into a ridiculously stylish smock reminiscent of JLo’s infamous Grammy dress—except mine ended at a roll of skin covering my belly button. If JLo had side-boob, I had side-sag.
As I entered the examination room, I faced the machine with a brave face. A technician recited the procedure like it was a rehearsed script, and then it was showtime.
Now, let me provide a little more context about my breasts to paint a clearer picture. When my first son was just three, he was obsessed with breasts. He would rest his little hand on mine and announce, “Look, Mom, booby sacks!” One day, he candidly told me, “Mom, I like your boobs because they’re big, they’re sloppy, and they have nipples.” Honestly, that’s probably the best description I’ve ever heard.
After the technician finished her spiel, I confidently placed both of my ample breasts onto the glass plate with a comical thud. The technician looked aghast and tried to nudge them back with her pen. Unfortunately, skin doesn’t slide easily off glass, so I ended up awkwardly yanking them back as if starting a lawnmower. Who knew they only wanted one at a time?
Once I was positioned correctly, the technician remarked, “I’m just going to tuck this away,” as she pushed some excess flesh under the machine. Then she lowered the compression plate while I braced myself for pain. Here’s the surprise: it didn’t hurt at all! My “big, sloppy” breasts flattened out nicely without any discomfort. After the x-ray, I casually mentioned my anxiety about the pain.
“Yeah, that’s a common concern,” she replied. “Most of those who complain are older.” Realizing her mistake, she quickly added, “I mean, they used an older machine. These newer ones are much better!”
After several x-rays and a tiny dose of radiation, I found myself back in the dressing room. Before I changed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and felt a sudden urge to document the moment. I had faced the mammogram machine head-on and emerged victorious. I felt proud—not just of myself but of my “big, sloppy” breasts.
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In summary, my experience with mammograms was nothing like I had feared. While my preconceived notions nearly held me back, I discovered that facing this new chapter in my life wasn’t as daunting as it seemed.