A whole lot of life happens when you go for the annual mammogram -- and please do

By CHRISTIE VILSACK
March 28, 2005
DES MOINES, IOWA

There is always a certain camaraderie in the small waiting area near the dressing rooms at Mercy West, where I get my yearly mammogram. We are all bare from the waist up under the pink capes. Winter or summer it is always cold while we wait for the x-ray technicians to lead us through a catacomb of exam rooms. None of us is looking forward to the indignity of having our breasts squished between two cold glass plates. We’re all here for the same reason. We want to live productive lives, and we have chosen to take responsibility for our health.

Someone always has to begin with some smart aleck remark about the capes.

“We must all shop at the same place,” says Pink Cape #2.

Pink Cape #3 chuckles.

“Yeah, but I think they should make them out of flannel,” I reply shivering.

“Aren’t you Christie?” asks Pink cape #2. She works for the Iowa Lottery, she explains. Pink cape #3 looks at me more carefully. I’m no longer just a pink cape. I am the First Pink Cape.

The ubiquitous lab techs appear and lead us to our dates with the “the vice”.

Right away, I notice something different. My technician covers the cold metal plate my right breast is about to encounter with a white cloth that sticks to the metal, holding it secure.

“You didn’t have that the last time I was here. Is that new?” I ask. She says they’ve been using them for about a year.

“I’m sure whoever invented that square of medical genius was a woman, and she deserves to be a millionaire,” I tell my lab tech, who is checking my chart.

As usual my technician is very professional. I’m sure she is aware that I am nervous, trying to cover it by being funny.

She wants to go over my record. “Your mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was 48?” she asks. Now it’s not funny anymore. I remember sitting in this room six years ago when I realized that I was the age of my mother when she discovered a malignant lump in her breast. She had never had a mammogram. I remember a few years later, when I was 52, sitting in a room like this one listening to the same question, recognizing that I had outlived her.

The technician gently lifts my breast onto the plate and compresses it. She tells me to hold my breath. I remember the jagged scars where my mother’s breasts used to be, the wounds under her arms that never healed. This is why I’m here, to avoid that, I tell myself. This is no big deal compared to that.

Time for the other side. Extend my arm, slump my shoulders. I never know just where to put my head. As she positions me, I think about my first chest x-ray when I was l8. My dad insisted on it. I don’t think mammograms existed in l968 but his sense of urgency convinced me that prevention was important.

I remember when he sent me the clipping from a newspaper that said women who breastfeed have a better chance of avoiding breast cancer.

And I think about my 33rd birthday, when he handed me the name and number of a woman specialist in Iowa City. He was afraid I wasn’t having thorough enough check-ups. I had told him I’d see a specialist when he found one who was a woman, thinking that would put him off.

When I was a child, back when both my parents smoked, he promised me $200 if I wouldn’t smoke until I was 21. That promise was probably the best healthcare investment he ever made.

My father never discussed my mother’s illness after she died, and never said the word “breast” aloud that I remember. Sometimes actions speak louder than words.

The lab tech instructs me to turn sideways. She needs a picture of the lymph nodes under my arms. “Hold your breath,” she says again as she moves to flip the switch. The machine hums softly as it takes the photo.

When I lived in Mount Pleasant, I used to organize “Daffodil Days” for the American Cancer Society in late March and early April. It was a positive, joyous way to help the cause, raise awareness and to celebrate the lives of friends and family who have survived cancer because of advances in research.

A few years ago I learned that the First Lady of Pennsylvania sponsored a Mother’s Day Mammogram program which encouraged family members to give mammograms as Mother’s Day presents. I liked the idea. It reminded me of my dad’s attempts to make prevention a habit with me.

When I returned to the waiting area, I was joined by Pink Cape #2 and Pink Cape #3. We waited to hear that the film was properly developed. Then we could leave.

“I’m going for ice cream after this,” I announce. “I always do. It’s my incentive for coming.” I have their attention. “Two scoops!” I continue, “I deserve it.”

“Have you ever been to Maggie Moo’s?” Pink Cape #3 asks. Pink Cape #2 mentions another ice cream place farther out in West Des Moines.

They tell me how the newest in ice cream trends involves scooping a mound or two of ice cream onto a cold marble slab. The server adds a variety of nuts, chocolate, candy bar tidbits – whatever suits your fancy – then kneads it into the ice cream with hand-held paddles and scoops into a cone or dish.

“Are you really going for ice cream?” asks Pink Cape #3. I can tell she likes the idea of a reward.

“Sure. But I was just going to stop at Bauder’s for a cone on my way home.”

“Maggie Moo’s is on your way,” she assures me and gives me directions.

She leaves first. Then Pink Cape #2. Finally my technician excuses me. They’ll let me know the results in a week or two, she says.

When I pull into Maggie Moo’s, I am surprised to see Pink Cape #3 getting out of her car. She says she wasn’t sure I would really come. She was sorry she hadn’t recognized me earlier. Of course, there is no reason she should have. In those pink capes, titles mean nothing.

She chooses chocolate with snickers bars. I choose mocha with white chocolate chips and almonds.

We are women who care about our families, and we sit and talk about them.

Pink Cape #3 has a name – Sal. She lives nearby. Her children are younger than mine, 12 and 17. We talk about her in-home day care, how she decided to quit a job she liked, because it cost less to stay home with her children and care for several others. She likes being home when her children arrive after school. We talk about helping a daughter choose a college, about soccer. We talk about the importance of having a childcare provider you can trust. We talk about the towns where we grew up.

This serendipitous encounter makes me feel good to be alive, to be able to enjoy the cold sweetness of ice cream, to talk about my family, to feel that I have done something responsible and to share the moment.

By the way, if you’re reading this and you love someone who hasn’t had a mammogram this year, remember that Mother’s Day is coming soon. If you’re reading this and you haven’t had a mammogram this year, please make an appointment. Then treat yourself to ice cream and take a friend.