Turning 40 didn’t faze me much. Perhaps it’s because I maintain the maturity of a child who frequently finds themselves in trouble. I still chuckle at silly jokes, and if someone trips, I can’t help but burst into laughter. As I said, I’m a bit juvenile.
However, about a month ago, I truly felt the weight of my 41 years, and let me tell you, it was a heavy realization. It came in the most unsuspecting form: an envelope. Despite my various silly fears, I hadn’t been anxious about an envelope since I was 17, waiting for college acceptance letters.
While going through my mail, I stumbled upon this ominous piece of correspondence and opened it, completely unaware of its contents. I don’t recall the exact wording, but it can be summarized like this:
“Hey, guess what? You’re getting older. It’s time for you to get a mammogram!”
Actually, the letter was quite polite, akin to an awkward teen trying to impress a crush:
“As women reach a certain age, monitoring health becomes increasingly important. Since you’re entering this new phase of life, consider scheduling your first mammogram.”
My immediate reaction was confusion; I thought women were supposed to wait until 45 for their first mammogram! Surely, they had mistaken me for someone else—perhaps an elderly woman with sagging breasts. A quick search online revealed that women with a higher body weight should get mammograms sooner than their fitter peers. Thanks a lot, healthcare system!
For those already part of the mammogram club, you might think I’m overreacting, but there’s a backstory. When I was a teenager, I had a rather traumatic experience accompanying my mother to her mammogram appointment.
If you’re wondering why a teenager was present during such a procedure, join the club; I still have no idea why my mom brought me. I vividly recall her screaming in pain as the technician lowered the glass onto her breast.
After much hesitation, I scheduled my own appointment and anxiously counted down the days to my first mammogram. On the day of the appointment, I drove there reassuring my breasts that the discomfort would be quick. Once checked in, I changed into a hospital smock that reminded me of that iconic JLo Grammy dress—except mine was way less flattering.
As I entered the room, staring at the machine, I puffed out my chest. The technician rattled off instructions, and then it was time for action.
Now, let me provide a little more context about my breasts. When my son was just a toddler, he had an unusual fascination with them. He would pat my chest and proudly announce, “Look, Mom, booby sacks!” One time, he described them perfectly: “Mom, I like your boobs because they’re big, they’re sloppy, and they have nipples.” That phrase has stuck with us ever since.
So, after the technician finished her spiel, I boldly placed both of my “big and sloppy” breasts on the glass plate, asking, “Is this how we do it?” The technician was visibly startled and tried to push my breasts back with her pen. Turns out, they don’t want both at the same time—who knew?
After a few awkward adjustments, I was finally ready for the compression. I held my breath, bracing for pain, but here’s the surprising part: it didn’t hurt at all. Not even a little! My breasts flattened nicely against the plate, and after a few x-rays, I was back in the dressing room.
Before changing, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and felt a rush of pride. I had faced the mammogram machine and emerged victorious, feeling accomplished and oddly pleased with my “big, sloppy” breasts.
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In summary, my experience with mammograms was not what I expected. It was a moment of personal growth, and I learned that facing fears often leads to unexpected victories.