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.

Vestibular Residence

My doctor took a moment to consider his examination and then, as he confidently popped the sterilized veneer from the top of the otoscope thing-a-ma-bobber, he disclosed his diagnosis, “you have a virus in your ear.”

Now, I was immediately inclined to ask that he might repeat himself because I must have somehow muddled and/or misinterpreted this diagnosis due to what he would later refer to as “a significant amount of congestion and inflammation” in my right ear or what I began to acutely refer to as: why does the room keep spinning? (insert nausea here)

So I asked him, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that. I have what?”
So he repeated himself, only this time slightly louder, “I say, you have a virus… in your ear.”

Consider the two distinct responses that popped into my head:

1. Defensive indignation in that I could embrace my inner 8-year old child and respond with the exceedingly infantile show stopper known as the “I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I” Freudian projection, as clearly my lexicon of “your mama’s so fat” one-liners would never suffice in such a clinical setting.

“Oh yeah doctor? Well….well you have a virus in your ear! So there!” wherein any unflappable physician should promptly respond with “that may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that you have a virus in your ear.”


2. Thoughts of extrication, extraction and removal of the virus in that one might consider that when it is revealed that one has a virus in one’s ear, an opportunity to remove said virus from one’s ear would soon contrarily present itself as it could be argued that what goes in, must come out.

A few examples of what goes in, must come out:

-When one has a fly in one’s soup one can beckon the server to fish it out and then promptly storm out in a disgruntled huff—that is, storm out the door from which they came in.

-One can put tropical fish into one’s 30-gallon tank in an effort to promote personal tranquility; however much to their dismay the fish can then be taken out of the tank and quickly left to squander about in a desiccated state of decomposition.

-An individual can put 10W-40 into the engine of their 1980 black Chevy Monza 4x4, however I assure you, it will systematically leak out if you’re driving the one I used to own.

-An individual can jam an index finger into their nose, but they’re bound to pull it out sooner or later; how else would they be able to flick the coagulated bugger at their sibling thereby inciting a fratricidal fury for custodial Sunday.

I suppose there are a couple of exceptions to my what goes in, must come out rationale.

For example, if you’re at a wake and you overhear some insensitive yenta babbling on about how “Teddy wouldn’t quit smoking right up until the end and so it was the congestive heart failure that finally did Teddy in,” well then the odds are that once the vessel formerly known as Teddy is peacefully placed into his Sarcophagus, he will in all probability not be coming out for cig by the dumpster anytime soon.

Yes, but jenji you have a virus in your ear. Precisely, and I’m thankful to have an answer as to what was/is causing my symptoms, however I still found/find myself perplexed by the phraseology of said diagnosis.

What I really wanted to say to the doctor was, “What do you mean I have a virus in my ear? Surely you mean to say that I have caught a virus or that a virus is causing these symptoms and my condition.”

Or how about he went ahead, took a gamble and allowed for a clinical diagnosis, wherein he could have informed me that I had vestibular neuritis: a condition caused by a viral infection of the vestibular nerve, which can in turn cause the excessive vertigo and nausea that I had/have been experiencing, as well as the spontaneous nystagmus associated with lying down on my right side in bed. At least I could have Googled that explanation.

But no, he chose to embrace the perilous, enigmatic virus in your ear and all of its incendiary implications in lieu of the vestibular neuritis.

…you have a virus in your ear.

I don’t believe it would be too farfetched for me to maintain that I have a significantly bent mind, and when you inform a bent mind that they have a virus in their ear, that bent mind will undoubtedly conjure up one image: of a strapping Ricardo Montalbán jamming a gigantic Ceti eel larvae into Commander Chekov’s ear in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Good God man, don’t inform someone they have something in a particular orifice of their body if there isn’t some possibility that you can coax whatever it is that’s in there out in the very near future.







Wrath of Khan

jenji, enough with the semantics.
You know what, you're right.

….
…….
……….

But I’m just sayin’, when my mother had a seizure a few years ago the distracted emergency physician didn’t say to me, “your mother had a seizure in her brain.” No sir, in fact he said, “your mother had a seizure, I’ll explain more later, it’s mac n cheese Friday downstairs,” wherein I assume he headed downstairs in to the cafeteria to pack his insensitive face with what is apparently phenomenal mac n cheese and then afterward, came on out to finally explain more later. You see, he was going to head in to the cafeteria and further, implied that at some point he would be coming back out to speak with me, so that makes perfect get in, get out sense.

When I saw a contemporary of mine at an opening wearing a cast on his leg I asked, “what happened to your leg?” he responded, “I broke my ankle.” What he didn’t say was “I have a broken a bone in my leg,” for that might imply that he could take the break out in some fashion.

Nor did he say, “similar to the injury that the incomparable Frida Kahlo suffered in her right leg, I have an oblique fracture of the fibula in my right leg, however my particular injury is much more minimalistic in nature in that mine didn’t shatter along the entire column of the leg” for if he had said that, which would have been entirely plausible given my past experience with artistic and/or intellectual symposiums, well then I probably would have told him that he was a tiresome, smug pedantic who doesn’t deserve neither my sympathy, nor my attention because I’m not looking to get covertly dragged into a pretentious debate about whether or not I consider Frida Kahlo’s work to be anti-conformist in nature; in fact, I had been previously fixated on the sophisticated cheese tray behind him; that was until he gimped his way across my sightline and so now I had no other choice but to ask him what the fuck was wrong with his leg.

What I should have said to the doctor was “I have a virus in my ear? Okay, then how can we get it out?” wherein he more than likely would have responded, “we can’t get it out, your insurance won’t cover the procedure.” Now that would have made perfect get in, get out sense, however that wasn’t what transpired.

In fact it’s simple: I have a virus in my ear that’s intermittently wreaking havoc, and luckily it doesn’t require extraction or invasive attention, however given my doctor’s predilection for ominous diagnoses, he has graciously afforded me with a far more indeterminate prognosis for said diagnosis: “the virus will go away on its own,” wherein he threw a prescription at me for anti-emetic, anti-vertigo pills.

I'm going to go ahead and interpret “the virus will go away on its own,” as it'll go ahead and come out on its own in an effort to thwart my bent mind, as the thought of a virulent intruder riding along a one-way vestibular concourse and taking up residence within my noggin overwhelms me with an imperative need to go out and buy wire hangers and rubbing alcohol.

jenji

Re: The Passive-Aggressive Ressentiment

There are horrible people who, instead of solving a problem, tangle it up and make it harder to solve for anyone who wants to deal with it. Whoever does not know how to hit the nail on the head should be asked not to hit it at all.
Friedrich Nietzsche

We often refuse to accept an idea merely because the tone of voice in which it has been expressed is unsympathetic to us.
Friedrich Nietzsche


I concur.

jenji