(Picture from LOLCats)In the U.S. news, there has been this recent development that mammograms aren't needed for women until you're 50. But right now the advisement is to still do what you're doing, because it's always been if you're 40, you go in and get a mammogram.
Huh?
Okay. Thanks for that clarification.
Now, I'm not a doctor. Please, I can't do Math and when I was in high school, my Biology teacher threw an earthworm at me when I screamed at cutting it. So do not take what I say as an endorsement. I'm just sharing my own personal experience.
When I was out of college and trying to figure out what one exactly did with a degree in English and Drama, I got a job at a non-profit agency for the Encore program. Basically, I cleared women, of low income, to get free mammograms. I even was trained and got my certificate to teach other women how to do self-breast exams.
That job ended because the funding ran out and they couldn't pay me. So I moved on, still wondering what to do with my degree. Did temp work, worked in a theatre, then at a health insurance before I went back to grad school and fell into teaching. The whole time I was wondering why do I not know what I want to do, and why were all my career choices seemingly all over the map. Because really, there seemed to be no purpose for me learning how to do self-breast exams, in knowing what felt abnormal, etc.
I was at my parents' house one night for dinner. And I went into the other room to work on schoolwork for the hell job. I was at a point in my career where I was realizing teaching wasn't for me, it was a really bad place to work at, and that I wanted to write (but, everyone knows writing isn't a career, right).
I'm at the computer, totally stressed out, wondering what would be the new catastrophe would be the following day at work. If I would have to face another lockdown, if one of my students would tell me to fuck off again, and if I would be confronted by one of my principals. And I was staring at the screen, and my left hand went to the top of my right breast, resting there. I pressed down for some reason. And I felt it.
A lump. Like a marble.
I pressed down on it again, rubbing a circle around it as I'd been taught, and checked the other breast. There was no lump in my left breast. Perhaps I was wrong? I called my mom in the room and had her feel my right breast. She felt it, too.
I swear, in that moment, everything freezes. You think of all the worst possibilities that can happen. What you've done, what you haven't done. And then I saw my mom's face---her mom/my grandma had died of breast cancer that spread to her bones---and I had to bear up and state that nothing was wrong.
I got into an appointment with my ob/gyn, trying not to stress out. The last time I had an appointment with my ob/gyn, she showed me my vagina because she thought all women should know what their vaginas looked like. I did not need to be acquainted with my vagina, thank you very much. And so I got an appointment with a male doctor, who was very nice and didn't show me my vagina, and he felt the lump, too.
Great, I thought, for once I'm not being dramatic.
The next appointment to be made was to have a mammogram, to see where the lump was, and how big it was. They told me I couldn't wear any deodrant or perfume. My first reaction was oh my god, I'm going to stink. And I made sure that my breasts looked good, because my breasts were going to be out there, getting squished. I had to go see the doctor next, where they would stick a needle in me, and test me---to see if it was cancer or not.
My dad and mom came with me for all appointments. My mom, I'm sure, had flashes of doing this with her mother. I had a book with me---it might have been an Eloisa James or a Lisa Kleypas with me, but I couldn't read it. The waiting room was full of women, of all ages and sizes. Finally my name was called. I had to put on one of those robe things that never do anything for you then lie down on the table.
I'm lying there, and the woman bares my breast. Another woman walks in, and I recognized her from my high school---she graduated a few years ahead of me. And I can't help but think: oh god, she's seeing my breast. I start making jokes. I say hey, usually when people see my breasts, they've at least paid for my dinner. They laugh, and the other woman rubs alcohol over my breast to numb the area where they're going to stick the needle. I say out loud I wished the alcohol was real; more laughter. The girl I went to high school and I start talking, and I make jokes about people. Our room is rolling with laughter, and you wouldn't think that a biopsy was going to be happening in a few minutes.
The doctor walks in, his grey eyebrows raise as he takes in the situation. He looks at our faces, and he checks the room. "Looks like I'm late to the party," he said.
"No worries. Maybe you brought the real alcohol this time," I retort.
More laughter, and he comes over. He looks at the mass on ultrasound. It's the size of a marble about, but it's moveable, which the other woman told me was a good thing. He takes out the needle and puts it in my breast. The mass immediately dissipates and poof, it's gone.
"Well, I don't think it's cancer," he says. "It was probably only a benign tumor because it filled up like that."
I really don't hear a lot of his words because the sense of relief that goes through me is a rush of air. And all I can think is thank god, thank god, thank god.
He then says, "I'm going to insert this tiny pin in you, it's the shape of a Breast Cancer Ribbon, to mark the spot. And then you're going to have another mammogram so that we have a record of everything."
"Sure," I say, nodding my head as best as I can lying on a table. "And then how about that dinner?"
A few weeks later I got the test confirming it was only a benign tumor.
I'm lucky. Because it could have been cancer. I saw women in there that day, in various stages of the disease. I got good news. But so many times, there are women who don't. And so all I'll say is that be your own advocate. If you feel something, have it checked out. If you think you need to have a mammogram before you're 40 or 50, do it. Don't let what the "experts" say determine your own fate---you know your body better than anyone.
I write. It's what I do. And sometimes I think that means I should be able to write anything I set my mind to. Granted, I'm not talking treatises on the mating habits of the East African Crested Crane or a do-it-yourself manual for building your own spaceship out of tin cans and homemade rocket fuel. But when it comes to creative writing, it should all be pretty much the same, shouldn't it? 
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