Emily Volman

Boobie Bio

Over five years ago, my mom had breast cancer. I note how long it’s been because she is a survivor and has not shown any signs of the cancer returning since then. However, I’m sure it’s something that is on her mind often because it’s certainly on mine.

Earlier this year, I had my annual physical and, since my doctor knows about my mother’s history, she recommended I get a mammogram…just to be safe. I had actually had one a few years before because of my mom’s condition, but that showed up clear. So I figured I had little to worry about this year, too. I was only 34 years old. ¹

Not so lucky. The technology used just three years ago has changed so much that they now have very detailed digital mammography machines. That meant, they could see every little spot in my voluptuous lady lumps ² this time. And they saw something that worried them. Something they wanted to see a little closer, so I was scheduled for a core-needle stereotactic breast biopsy, by which they use “a large hollow needle to remove one sample of breast tissue per insertion.” This sounded a tad scarier than a mere metal-disc-boobie-smashing mammogram.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought this. After my biopsy was done ³, I had to have another mammogram. There was a lady waiting to have her biopsy done right after me. I never saw her face because of the way they wheeled me into the room, but I saw her hands…and they were shaking like a washing machine with tennis shoes in it. We were wheeled and parked almost back-to-back, and I could hear her sobbing just a little. The nurses were trying to comfort her, but they were harried by the back-up of patients.

When the nurse left the room, I quietly threw out into the atmosphere, “Are you having a biopsy?” The woman’s sobs stopped for a moment. She squeaked out a “yes.” I reassured her that I just had it done and it really isn’t that bad. I didn’t lie. The actual biopsy was more on the uncomfortable scale of having to hold a yoga position for an abnormally long time (you can feel the burn, but it’s not excruciating pain). She took a deep breath and said, “Thank you. Thank you…..Good luck with everything.” I readjusted my ice-packed sore breast and put on my best cheerleader voice, “You too!”

The nurse returned and wheeled me into the mammogram room where I had to stand and have my recently-drilled knocker pressed into a pancake again. Although it really didn’t hurt, I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything since the night before, so when I stood up, I got a little light-headed. I calmly mentioned this to my nurse and she sprung into action like I had just gone into cardiac arrest. Two other nurses ran into the room with cold towels, pretzels and a Sprite. ⁴ While I appreciated the care and concern (and probably would’ve been annoyed with anything less), I think all the hubbub sent the faceless, scared woman waiting in the other room over the edge. All the nurses running around must’ve given her just enough time to escape because she got out of her wheelchair and walked herself right into a bathroom and wouldn’t come out. Those nurses were still trying to talk her out when I left.

I was the exact opposite patient for the nurses and doctor. Mind you, I was as nervous as the other woman, but I tend to be inappropriately funny in those situations. You know, the one who uses humor to distance myself from fear and intimacy.

Although I was only having a “day surgery,” I was checked into a hospital room anyway. Rod came with me and we waited in the sterile room ⁵ for someone to tell me what happened next. Finally, my room nurse came in to make sure I was who I said I was, take my vitals and give me my gown. In my defense, I’ve never been checked into a hospital that I can remember, so who am I to know what’s okay to say and not okay to say. George Clooney seemed to enjoys banter with his patients on ER. Plus, these people are going to be hurting me soon and I wanted to get on their good side.

So I try to tell a few dumb jokes to lighten the mood. The pulse machine made a flat-lining sound when she first put it on me and I do my best Fozzie Bear and say, “Hey, you’ve killed me already!” Not even a smile. Apparently, they take death very seriously at hospitals.

Instead, she instructed me to put on my gown and another nurse would be in to take me down to the biopsy room soon. That nurse did come and she was bearing a warm blanket to wrap me in. It was wonderful! Forget that the blanket had probably seen some nasty shit prior to my visit. It was warm! How cozy!

When I got to the biopsy room, I had to wait for the woman before me to finish her biopsy. ⁶ There didn’t seem to be any screaming or “why, God, why me” coming from the room, so between that and the warm blanket I was feeling a little more confident. They wheeled me in and explained what they would be doing to be…again. I’m all for being educated and informed, but at some point, hearing that they are going to be making an incision and coring out one of my girls with a long thick hollowed needle is just too much. But they have to follow the rules…the many, many rules.

The first rule was to make the patient write the word “YES” on the jug du jour. This is to ensure that both the patient and the doctor are drinking out of the same cup, as it were. I’m fairly modest (read: nervous to be exposed), so as I tentatively whipped my left bussom out and scribed the required affirmation, I giggled something about never having been so desperate to be felt up. The nurse just looked at me in shock. I’m sure it didn’t help that I do live in the South where they do a lot more thinking dirty thoughts than saying them outloud.

The next procedure is to have the doctor, of whom I’ve just met this instance, make a check mark next to my “YES” to acknowledge that he knows which one he will be working on. This seemed strange to me. Doesn’t he have my chart? Does he get his lefts and rights confused often? Does he really have to make a confirmation check mark? Are they grading him? Oh my god, is he still in school!?! My nervousness had returned. He lifted my gown, marker in hand, and my mouth opened before I could stop it. “I hope you have a lot of one-dollar bills today, Doc. Huh huh huh.” I had turned into Beavis AND Butthead. ⁷ Needless to say, he too stared at me, not knowing how to react.

Now it was time. The hard part. I took a deep breath and climbed atop the large horizontal table. I untied my gown and lower myself stomach first onto the table, where I was instructed to insert my jug du jour into the open padded hole. Imagine a cow’s utter poking through a donut. ⁸ I wondered if they would even be able to see my boob. ⁹

The nurses warned me that whatever I do I should not move. I could breath, she said, which was very nice of her. But any other movement in the slightest could cause I problem. What kind of problem, lady?! I held my breath, hoping maybe I would just pass out, but they started to raise the entire table into the air. As they continued to lift me until I was high enough for the doctors and nurses to work from underneath, I loudly proclaimed, “I’m just here for a lube, people, so don’t try and sell me any tires!”

Come on!! That shit is funny! Only one nurse laughed. The other one told me not to move. It was a tough room.

Despite the fact that these people probably wouldn’t be following me on Twitter any time soon, I retained my unseemly sense of humor throughout the ordeal. I was definitely sore for weeks afterwards and honestly never realized how often breasts involuntarily move in a day. No matter their size. But it all turned out fine in the end. The cluster they had dissected was non-cancerous and I hope to be able to say that it always will be. I really want my breasts to have a healthy immune system, and that comes from feeling loved. So I write “YES” on each of them everyday now.

It’s the little affirmations…