The Sisterhood of the Breast

THE NEW MAMMOGRAM GUIDELINES are confounding. I think we can agree on that. Ever since that government task force reported last November that most women don’t need mammograms in their 40s, that they should get one every two years starting at 50, that breast self-exams do no good, and that women shouldn’t be taught to do those exams, I’ve been dismayed as well as confused. Should I go for my yearly scan? Should I not? I kept putting it off. And then I developed some pain and tenderness, and scheduled a scan and, as if in response to all this unsteadying noise, a steadfast sisterhood was there to greet me.

It began with the receptionist, who introduced herself by her first name while going over my insurance information. She handed me off to the technician, who escorted me into the changing room, again using my first name.

On to the waiting room. There sat one very frightened woman, clearly on “call back,” who, still dressed in the unsightly gown we all were wearing, was looking into the face of a fully clothed woman standing beside her. While the body language of both indicated that they were clearly strangers to each other, the language illustrated a unique bond.

“Good luck. I’ll pray for you,” said the clothed woman.

“Thank you.”

And before anyone else could speak, she was called back in.

To my right sat Sue, introducing herself to me just as the woman being called back was whisked away. Maybe the tension in the room provoked such intimacy, I thought. Maybe that’s the way she always is, and the world probably kept spinning, and she probably went on talking, as I noticed that one side of her chest was flat and the other was not, and I started to reach out my hand to hold hers as I realized that what she was saying was being offered as encouragement to me; she was looking for none for herself. Confident–literally the voice of experience–she was commending me merely for showing up to be scanned.

She was not there when I came back out to wait while my films were reviewed.

But she was there when I got the news that I was being called back in.

“Good luck,” she offered. “You’ll be fine.”

She was not there while I waited for the second set of films to be reviewed. Or, when I heard the page go out for the ultrasound technician to report. Or, when that ultrasound technician was introducing herself to me.

Her name was Rachel.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Nervous. Scared.” At this point I’d been there about 45 minutes.

On went the gel. Around went the probe. I breathed deep. Trying to relax.

“Okay,” she said as she lifted off the wand. “How about I ask the doctor is I can come out and speak to you after he’s read the results? That way you don’t have to wait for the letter. I can explain to him that it will be too stressful to wait after being called back twice.”

Back in the waiting room. Breathing deep.

Out came the woman who was previously waiting for her call back. She was smiling. Someone had obviously given her some good news.

And I waited. And tried to meditate.

“Oh, there you are! I was looking for you.”

It was Sue. Dressed, and coming through a different door, she appeared to have been hunting around the place.

“How are you? What’s the update?

I told her I was waiting for ultrasound results.

“Oh good. They are being very thorough. That’s great. You OK?”

And in that instant out came Rachel.

“You’re fine. All fine. All clear.”

It took a moment or two of conversation until I noticed that she was holding my hand; she kept on holding it as I thanked her for her great kindness.

Driving home I thought about the women I had met, though it was a few days later, opening the letter that confirming my clean scan, that I began to think that while big medicine may have done their very best to confuse us, women being women—being very much who and what we are—are doing their very best to make up for that.

(photo thanks to Virginia Commonwealth University site.)

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