Today I was scheduled to get my first mammogram.

Backstory: my mom had breast cancer in her early (possibly mid?) forties, and has been pestering me to get a mammogram for years, just to have a baseline. And also just in case I have cancer, even though we all know that’s impossible if you’re under 30, at least according to insurance companies. Ahem.

For years my doctor has pooh-poohed this idea. This year, while she was conducting my breast exam, I brought it up again. She was feeling away at one particular spot for much longer than usual, and then said “Ok, we’ll schedule a mammogram.” Er, oooh-kay.

So I show up at the mammogram place today, and they ask why I’m there. I say something non-committal about just coming in for a baseline screening thingy, Mom had cancer, etc, etc. They still seem confused that I would bother if there’s not actually a noticable lump already.

Once I’m in the exam room, the tech looks over my records and says “So, your doctor found a lump in your left breast!” Really? My doctor didn’t mention that to me.

Anyway, it turns out they don’t jump straight to mammograms, at least not if you’re under 30. They do an ultrasound first, and a mammogram only if they feel it’s necessary. This is why I feel cheated: I was all prepared to go have my boobs pancaked, and have something funny to bitch about in my blog. Instead I just got smeared with warm KY jelly and got a glimpse of my insides on an ultrasound screen.

The “lump” is just a ridge of tissue that’s been there as long as I can remember, possibly scar tissue from the lift I got in the real boob to make it match the fake one. (Hey, anyone reading this not know I have one breast implant? Now you know! Not that I’ve ever kept quiet about it…) Either my doctor was just making up an excuse to get me in for a mammogram since that’s what I wanted, or she was genuinely perturbed by it – in which case she could have just said something, and I would have told her it’s normal.

So, two hours sitting around in a “Breast Center” (which, by the way, had the CRAPPIEST magazine selection ever – the best of the bunch was Good Housekeeping; I saw more than one fishing magazing, in a chick-centric waiting room, for crying out loud). One good slathering with goo. One nervous young doctor who kept asking if he was pushing too hard or if his hands were too cold, as if he was used to patients complaining. Zero cysts or lumps.

Doc: “Keep self-checking. Come back when you’re 35 for a mammogram.”

Tech: “Her mom had cancer in her 40s.”

Doc: “Be extra aggressive, then.”

Um, that’s what I was trying to do here, people. Smoosh my boobs already!

Bonus story: the front desk had a big bowl of what appeared to be plastic-wrapped tampons.  It was only on closer inspection I realized they were mints, just elongated and packaged in pink plastic.  Too bad; for a moment there I thought someone had a fun sense of humor.