NIPPLE TAGS

NIPPLE TAGS

     Once a year a group of friends and I walk in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Newport Beach, California. This day serves as a reminder to me to schedule my yearly mammogram appointment.

     I arrived early for my appointment and the technician took me right in. Instead of going into the dressing room to change, she ushered me into the mammography room and handed me a gown, telling me to put it on backwards. If this had been my first mammogram, I would have been a bit taken aback by the lack of modesty. Since I’m not a virgin, I didn’t really care if I had a gown on or not. Her businesslike manner was destined to get me in and out of there in record time, I figured.

     Next step was the nipple tags. Nipple tags? Those are the little blue tags in the picture. There’s a tiny metal nipple right in the center of them. I’m not sure what they’re for, but when she told me to put them on my nipples, I did just that.

     Then she instructed me to step up to the machine and fling my right breast onto the plate. After the fact she said the machine was cold and her hands were, too. No kidding. Ice cold. She pulled, she tugged, and finally got my breast where she wanted it. Then she cranked the top plate down to flatten the breast like a pancake. I was trapped. “Hold your breath, don’t breathe,” she said. Really? I’d been holding it since my boob was clamped in the vise. All I could think about as she took the picture was, “What if there’s an earthquake? What if the power goes out? Will this stupid machine release or am I stuck in here while everyone else exits the building to safety?”

     The whole thing was repeated with the left breast, then it was time for side views. I thought I knew the drill. I took my arm out of the gown and sidled up to the machine, raising my right arm in the air and grabbing part of the machine to hold onto. Not good enough. She leaned her whole body against me in order to get me positioned just right. She pulled and tugged again and finally clamped me in for the sideways view. Right side done, then left, and I was good for one more year. I put my bra and blouse back on and waited for the technician to check the images to make sure they’d turned out well. I loved the next words, “Okay, they’re fine. You’re finished.”

     I know she’s not the radiologist and can’t diagnose, but as a nurse I also know if she’d seen anything suspicious she probably would have taken a few more views before sending me on my way. So far there have been no phone calls. One of these days I’ll get an envelope in the mail with the results of my mammogram and a notice to come back next year. Peace of mind.

     Oh, and I got a parting gift; the nice little pink coin purse in the picture. I’d forgotten all about my mammogram until I got ready for bed that night. I took off my bra and there were the nipple tags, still attached. What the heck are those things for anyway?