Mammhandled
A routine screening goes off-topic
No other cars were in the hotel parking lot when I pulled up to the BC Cancer Breast Screening van in the chill of the morning. If no one else was inside, I might not have to wait.
I got out of my car and walked to the door where a sign read: Knock on door to let technicians know you’re here.
I knocked. A technician in blue scrubs opened the door and asked my name.
“You’re early, but our last appointment was a no-show. Come on in.”
Getting up first thing on a Saturday morning to get my boobs squished between two metal plates is not how I like to start the weekend. But every couple of years, I get a notice that I’m due for a mammography, and I make an appointment with the mobile van that travels through rural and remote regions of the province, like ours, to conduct breast cancer screening.
The Breast Cancer Detection van has two rooms. I entered into an office-like reception area with laptops and a small, padded bench that I’ve never seen anyone use. Most of us wait in our cars or outside in the parking lot, depending on weather.
The first blue-clad tech funneled me into the mammography examination room and shut me in with a second woman in blue at a laptop.
After confirming my name, address and birthdate, the technician told me that BC Cancer wanted me to answer a few questions for research purposes.
“Don’t tell me any confidential medical information,” she warned. Then she ran through questions like the voice rattling off side effects at the end of a prescription drug commercial.
I could barely respond to one question before she’d ask me the next, and it became clear she didn’t think this research was worth her or my time. She barely waited for my responses.
“Do you take any medications?”
“Well….”
“Don’t tell me any confidential information,” she snapped. “Have you ever had any pre-term pregnancies?”
“Uh…”
“I don’t want any medical information,” she held up her hand to cut me off. “What’s your highest level of education?”
I responded as quickly as I could to all questions until she closed the laptop.
“Take your top and bra off,” she directed.
This van didn’t have the usual small dressing area, so I stripped my top clothing off and hung it from the hooks as directed. I’ve been an athlete all my life and have no qualms getting naked in front of other women, much to the chagrin of a former colleague who once got us a shared motel room to save money.
The tech seemed interested in my educational background. “What did you get your master’s degree in?”
The research questions were over, which I suppose is why she waited for a response.
“International, Rural and Community Development,” I replied.
“Sounds obscure. What is it, like sociology?”
“Yeah, I kind of created it myself, a major in sociology with minors in economics and nutrition.”
“Did you ever publish?” she demanded.
“Yep, one article about iodine deficiency in the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco.” No one had ever asked me about my publishing history as a graduate student. “A lack of iodine causes goiter.”
“My mom had goiter.” She told me. “She’s from Saskatchewan.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Iodine is found in fish and coastal areas. When the waters retreated from the plains areas of North America, they leached out the iodine from the soil. Goiter was much more common in the plains, especially in the generations before we began iodizing salt and bread. Nowadays everything has iodine in it.”
“I’m a sociologist too,” she told me but didn’t explain how it had led into her current position. She certainly hadn’t learned to relate to people. “Put your breast on this plate. Grab that bar and relax your shoulders.”
I did as directed, though the plate was too high, and I stood on my tiptoes.
“Relax!” she admonished. “Lower your shoulder!”
I explained that I was on my tiptoes.
“Why are you on your tiptoes?” She lowered the machine. Then she cranked the plates together, squishing my boobs like a jelly sandwich.
She took an image then returned to flop my breast in a different direction. “Hold on here, and RELAX YOUR SHOULDERS.”
I tried to relax, but her bedside manner could only be described as curt and efficient.
“You’re skinny,” she complained. “It makes it difficult to get the side view.”
I think of skinny as Olive-Oyl-like. I’m fit and have plenty of meat and muscle on my bones. I stayed silent. I just wanted this over.
“Okay, other side. RELAX YOUR SHOULDERS!”
Apparently I keep my shoulders tight when someone’s chastising me and manipulating my tender boob flesh while preparing to smash them between metal plates.
She took my breast and elongated it on the plate. “Right here are the mammary glands, and I have to get these stretched out for the next image. Relax your grip and breathe normally.”
I followed her instructions, but she didn’t help matters.
“If you’re a sociologist, you must realize that immigration is a net negative.”
Huh?
I began to respond, but she cranked my boob into a thin patty of flesh, and I sucked in air instead.
“I don’t see it that way,” I managed to say once the clamps had been released.
“Oh, well, when the educated leave their own countries, it’s a brain drain.”
“That’s different than being a net negative.” I replied, wincing as she engaged in a final clampdown. “The immigrants I know work multiple jobs and send money home.”
“Well overall, immigration isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” She left me to stand by the imaging machine. “Take a breath and hold it.”
I held my breath, and the machine completed its task.
“Get your clothes on,” she ordered.
I got dressed and she led me out to the waiting room where the other employee looked to be making spring break reservations on a webpage with palm trees and ocean waves.
Saturday mornings aren’t the busiest time for mobile mammography.
“You’re the type of person I’d like to have coffee with,” the boob tech said, blocking my way out.
I grunted and eyed the door.
“BC Health will contact you with your results.” She stepped aside and I leapt at the handle.
“Okay, thanks!” I bolted into the empty parking lot without a backwards glance, jumped into my car and tore out of there as if I’d just stolen their fancy laptops.
The experience reminded me of the time in 2020 when I’d gone for blood tests, and the phlebotomist launched into an anti-Trudeau rant while shoving a needle into my vein.
“I wish we had the [Orange Felon] instead,” he raved.
While I’ll always thank Trudeau for legalizing cannabis, I otherwise wasn’t a huge fan of our charming, shirt-averse Prime Minister. But handing the reins over to a corrupt reality TV star/white supremacist certainly wasn’t the best alternative.
I bit my tongue and waited until he was done before I replied. I don’t argue with people who can cause me pain.
Why do health care providers believe it’s okay to talk politics or policy when putting people in a vulnerable position? Are they looking for a rise in blood pressure?
Whatever the reason, I hope my next appointment sticks to the procedure and doesn’t come with another dose of crazy talk.
I am always armed when confronted with a situation like yours.I just turn to the person and say, " I don't know if you need to double or half your medication, but you need to do something."
I mean, I just came here for the pictures. Made my day.