Mammy-Gram

This afternoon I had my annual mammogram. Is this too much information? No? Then I shall continue.

For me, annual exams—both *pap and mammography—can evoke a sense of fear and trepidation, as the possibility for anomalous, irregular results can seem imminent, given an individual’s family history, coping style and/or current situation, or in my case, given the fundamental equilibrium and overall cohesive performance of the various synaptic connections throughout The Ol’ Noodle, which have been known to spontaneously challenge jenji’s ability to navigate about the particulars of reality, rationale and/or status quo with any definitive eloquence at any given moment. (see: dread)

*Frankly, the former—pap trepidation—initially has more to do with jenji minor’s anticipation and inability to brace for, so to speak, the advance of the stone-cold speculum—also known as The Cervical Iceberg, which has an undeniable ability to hastily freeze and lower my core temperature from the inside out within seconds of impact—more so to do with that than it does with my family’s significant history for irregularity in this particular arena. I’m just sayin, would it kill The Man to get a toaster oven? (The Man: My highly reputable gynecologist).

Conversely, one can choose to embrace and dare I say, be thankful for, the existence of such early detection devices so as to allow for early intervention should the results of any given test come back irregular and/or suspicious. I’m happy to report that given my current state of polarity—middle of the road, vanilla, hopeful, even—I didn’t lend any energy to the formidable worry front, as I currently posses the previously mentioned definitive eloquence, which allows one to successfully rationalize energies away from approaching murky squalls. (see: dread, opposite)

Also, given the virulence of various inefficient processes and programs associated with health care as whole, this particular Group—THE INSERT RADIOLOGY GROUP HERE—which prides itself on being progressive, cutting edge etc. truly is what it purports to be.

Wait. That can’t possibly be right. No, no, it truly is. They truly are.

Prove it.

Item #1: Intro

They welcome client feedback and in fact, actually make adjustments accordingly.

My last visit was in late 2008 and while the physicians, technicians and staff were entirely courteous, competent and expeditious, the waiting area (stage 1) was somewhat jarring in that their ability to work efficiently as a cohesive unit—to funnel individuals through 1, 2, 3—although still commendable, the staging area of the well-oiled machine could easily leave one feeling as if one ought to have a floppy red tag hanging from one's ear, a graphic match to the shiny red mark branded upon one's ass, both indicative of one's arrival and position within the voluminous herd.

Okay, perhaps that’s a bit exaggerated or melodramatic, however, the waiting area was so congested with clients that each one was referred to by a given number so as to protect and preserve privacy; in fact, one was initially given a pager to check in with admin and therein a plastic garment tag—a call number—to proceed back for the actual scan. Truly, it was reminiscent of a classic delicatessen, as the temperature of the anxious crowd--best described as feverish--was a crowd riddled with individuals constantly peering down at their pager and/or tag in an effort to validate that they hadn’t been skipped or passed over by another muttering mass of nerves. And so yes, 2008 was a bit disconcerting and overwhelming, especially for an artistic temperament (example: mine), which tends to implore one (example: me) to imagine the back-story and particulars—from title cards to credits—of any and/or all individuals I may stumble upon and/or interact with throughout any given day.

And so upon request I made a suggestion on the comment card provided at last visit:

Less factory, more intimacy. Yours truly, jenji

Item #1: Conclusion

The INSERT RADIOLOGY ESTABLISHMENT takes into consideration client feedback, as the entire establishment has been renovated and refurbished since my last visit wherein the artistic temperament (example: mine) will find itself (example: me) inquiring about the particulars whilst mid-squash, mid-mammo, mid-tug-- the particulars regarding the catalyst for said renovations so as to avoid inaccurate speculation and thus unnecessary title cards later.

The Verdict: “Client feedback indicated that the waiting areas were too crowded and impersonal, which caused unnecessary anxiety for many people.”

(gasp)

You don’t say.

And so the well-oiled machine, while still entirely lubed, has been broken down into “several different waiting areas,” each complete with its own flat screen television (Cable: The Food Network), fireplace (electric), comfortable décor, tranquil tones (sage, taupe), complimentary beverages (water, tea, coffee, juice) and finally, a heaping dish of chocolates. Shall I repeat the last part: a heaping dish of chocolates. Expensive, individually wrapped, gluten-free chocolate, I might add. No need to worry about smattered fingers in the candy bowl, as the candy in the bowl, or dish as it were, could easily be unwrapped and popped down one’s gullet sans contamination.

Item #2: Intro

Mammogram: 2010—

There was a phenomenon, a very post-9/11 phenomenon, which took place whilst waiting for my scan (stage 2): people—women, from all walks of life—spoke to one another in lieu of the formidable at one another or even worse, not at all. My city isn’t particularly known for neither friendly banter, nor routine pleasantries even whilst sharing a 4-foot by 5-foot space in an elevator, let alone sitting in a waiting room. Ingredients for jenjiworld surroundings: eyes down, grimace affixed, audible grumbling about this, that and the other. Such is my frustration, as the artistic temperament (example: mine) does not allow one (example: me) to coexist well amongst the detachment of the many who surround me. I’m too inquisitive; too chatty; perhaps even too polite. Far too often I find myself saying “nevermind, it was a joke” or “I asked, how’s it going?”

And so, these women you speak of jenji, as if they even exist at all; you say all walks of life? How do you know that? How could you possibly know that?

Because they spoke to me and they spoke to one another, while I naturally, said very little, to nothing. Such is my right as the nodding, prodding, albeit entirely engaged observer who cannot hardly get a word in, as she is busily cramming her face with goodies from the heaping dish of sanitarily sound chocolate. Chocolate trumps conversation, period.

It has been my experience that people interact and make considerably more eye contact throughout two different scenarios: whilst entirely comfortable and at ease or whilst incredibly anxious and nervous.

The particulars vary depending upon the audience. A man will interact differently with a woman than a woman will interact with another woman or in this case, amongst other women. Groups interact differently than individuals and I suppose one could assert that our group of 7—in this case all women—had a smattering of both scenarios (comfort and anxiety), however our surroundings were so comforting—fireplace, lighting, aromatherapy—that women seemed compelled to exchange particulars—not pleasantries, this was not mindless, polite banter—particulars, such as recipes (two women were caterers) and background (one woman was an elderly cancer survivor from India). This was interesting, fulfilling banter, which is not something I run into very often. Usually I witness either defiant mutes, complete with the what-are-you-wearing judgmental sneers (yes, I have a few holes in my jeans and yes I’m wearing fingerless arm warmers: deal with it), vapid inquiries/responses, narcissism and/or abject gossip.

And so we--7 strangers, picked to have scans and see who stops being polite and starts getting real; apologies--we all waited throughout stage 2 and into stage 3 together. With one another. (cue Phillip Glass)

At THIS ESTABLISHMENT one can choose to wait for a doctor to read their scans before they go home; this is stage 3 (my label, not their label I assure you); it takes a bit longer, however one doesn’t have to wonder about the possibilities and can set oneself up with an opportunity to more than likely go home with good news. In all, I encountered three different waiting rooms: reception, scanning and results. Women wish one another luck before going into their scan (stage two: “good luck”), while they congratulate one another once they get results (stage three: "congratulations"). I witnessed three women emerge from the doctor’s office with what could only be described as a posture of relief and a slap-happy grin on their faces. And as each one exited from the office they said some derivative of the same thing to all of us: all clear, negative or clean! When I emerged from the doctor’s quarters all of my comrades had gone, while a new group of women were busy respectively chatting with one another, however, caterer #2 was just leaving the changing room next to mine as I approached and she asked: “is everything okay with your results?”

My point: I suspect that this establishment's ability to truly care for us allowed us to truly care for one another. The university doesn’t give a shit about us and therefore, we don’t give a shit about one another, even within the confines of a 4 foot x 5 foot elevator, or so I've come to convince myself so as to avoid embarrassment, discouragement or homicidal rage. (see: fundamental equilibrium)

Note: I had a lovely conversation with a set of identical twins in the elevator--Donna and Diana (honestly, gleaned, not inquired)--however, while I can claim to have given a shit, I cannot elaborate further, as both were relegated to different staging areas once we reached our floor.

**Item #3: Intro

Existence

While a mammogram isn’t in and of itself a box full of kittens, it’s not nearly the most painful procedure on the planet (see: retrograde cystography for kidney stones) and so I will once again refer to, focus upon and embrace the existence of mammography as a diagnostic tool/device to be thankful for. In fact, I shall focus upon my results.

Item #3: Conclusion

Results:

Normal/Negative. No evidence of cancer.

**While Item #3—my result—isn’t in and of itself evidence of this establishment’s extraordinary expansion, sincere care nor purported pride, it certainly didn’t hurt neither my experience nor this review; then again, neither did the heaping dish of chocolate. Did I mention the heaping dish of chocolate?

jenji

Disclaimer For Insensitivity: jenji is keenly aware that many women may receive less than desirable news from the doctor regarding their mammography, however for the purposes of this entry she has consciously excluded such discussion; except for this part-- which is meant to deter anyone from pointing out what an absolute ignoramus jenji is for having overlooked the gravity and prevalence of breast cancer. For this entry is not about breast cancer, it's about chocolate.