Pink Lollipops and Pelmets
My appointment is at ten to three. My last mammogram there was a shadow on the left side. It turned out to be nothing, but I didn’t find that out for a fortnight.
I catastrophized about dying a gruesome death from the first squishy titty X-ray until the ninth one; an inch square pinch and split-second push that almost made me pass out. That last press was such a doozy; it had the radiographer apologise constantly while half carrying me to an arm chair.
I examined coloured squares embedded in the waiting room carpet before being called back in for an ultrasound. The technician pressed my left breast over and over from my armpit to the centre of my chest. That twenty-five minutes felt like a month. While being steamrolled, I catastrophized again, my imagination taking me hostage as silent tears wormed down my face.
The guy driving the device pushed over the exact same spot to get a good picture of lymph nodes beneath my arm. Ramming the ultrasound mouse in so hard it seemed like he’d crush the nodes anyway.
The procedure at the private clinic took three hours and cost almost $600 for the privilege. Badly bruised, I refused to go back again.
That was six years ago.
Our world went a little pink in the in-between years. Years I went to fundraisers wearing pink. Years of raffle tickets, of Cancer Council Biggest Morning Teas; of squashing notes into donation boxes. Years of buying frothy pink cupcakes that tasted sickly. Times of putting on pink ribbons while listening to cancer survival stories; special events where I purchased pink diamante brooches I’d never wear again.
There were six years where I couldn’t contemplate another mammogram, though the reminder letters kept on coming, and my husband kept nagging me. I put it off until the next year; then the next and the next.
Finally made an appointment, but the radiologist was sick and the date pushed back another two weeks. A reprieve; that call made me happy.
But, today I did go.
Actually, I was taken because my husband didn’t trust me not to wimp out on the session. He drove, telling sick boob jokes and revolting limericks to try and lighten the mood all the way.
“I’ll be fine on my own. Don’t come in with me.”
“It’s alright.”
“I’ll be wearing my bitch face. I’ll spend the whole time thinking I’m gonna die, or worse, have my boobs lopped off.”
Husband opens his mouth to speak.
“And if you tell one more inappropriate titty joke I’ll have to kill you now.”
“I know, but I’m still coming in.”
Was he listening?
“I will take it out on you. I won’t be good company. You know what I’m like?”
“I do.”
“But…”
“That’s why I’m coming with you.”
We arrive at the clinic too early. I think I’m gonna pee my pants; I don’t need to go, it’s just nerves. Husband asks if he can park in a spot reserved for Breast Screen Patients Only even though he doesn’t have breasts. I scream at him to leave me for at least an hour.
“Look, I’ll text you when I’m done; go.”
The building entrance has bright pink signage. Inside, bunting announces everything with pale, dangling pink; the colour favoured by little girls and ballet shoes.
Even the doorways are decorated. Small triangular flags scream out -
HOPE
COURAGE
CURE
STRENGTH.
I need three out of four to step forward.
The screening clinic is secreted away within another larger building. Another loud pink welcome sign greets me. The internal windows are covered with thick beige curtaining with pelmets in the same fabric. Already seated, a lady in her seventies sees me checking out the shades.
“Aren’t the curtains lovely with those pelmets above them?”
“Yeah, you don’t see many these days. They were in my aunties house when I was a little girl.”
“In my house too,” she says, as if it’s a happy revelation, “don’t worry dear, they treat you very well in here.”
Unconvinced, I smile the half smile of a woman scared senseless. Looking around at frilly pink decorations while the receptionist is still on the phone, I realise they’ve done up the place like a ballroom. More positive party style signs, more festoons of pink streamers for Breast Screening Month.
A lady across the room is sitting in a recliner and sucking on something. I can’t tell what she’s eating. Then I see lolly jars on the desk. Swirly pink lollipops flower inside, with more stickers, pins, signage and a carton of tea bags on one side.
This is nothing like last time.
The receptionist welcomes me warmly, explaining that I won’t have long to wait in a way that subdues half my fears straight away. She invites me to take as many lollipops and teabags as I’d like.
Pelmet Lady gets a bundle of wool from her bag. She begins the knit one-pearl one routine I know from childhood. We start chatting while she goes clickety clack with the needles.
More ladies come through the door, surprised by the lollipops, free teabags and friendly atmosphere.
Deep breathing in my comfy lounge chair, it’s my turn to be pressed.
Anthea, the touchy-feely clinician, is kind and reassuring.
“Every woman that comes here starts the same way; four pictures, two a breast.”
A multitude of rude twin/pair/boob/abreast jokes my husband told on the way suddenly come back to bite me.
I want to laugh out loud.
“Have you noticed any changes to your breasts lately Therese?”
Yes, they used to be high and firm, now they wobble when I walk fast.
“No, not really.”
I can’t look in Anthea’s eyes as she holds, shifts and spreads my tit across the plate. I still can’t look while she twists me around once it is in place, asking if I wouldn’t mind holding my other breast up and away from the machine. There’s a second where it’s uncomfortable, but she lets me know the release is coming. And, with a mild hiss, the shiny beige machine eases off.
“That’s you finished for today. Two independent specialist doctors will examine your x-rays. You’ll have your results in ten days. Don’t worry, ninety percent of women called back in for further tests don’t actually have breast cancer.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
On my way out, the receptionist pushes more lollipops and teabags on me; like a kid’s consolation after a school vaccination. I walk beneath positive signs that say: “We are closer to a cure than ever before”.
I dash to the bathrooms to sit and breathe and smile. Grounding myself, I think how all those fundraisers paid off to make the appointment as pleasant as possible.
At the outside door, I see our car without my husband i it. Oh no. Back under the bunting and bright décor; back inside to see my man in NO MAN’S LAND. He looks out of place like a penguin in the Sahara.
I love him for coming back before I texted. I love him for parking in the closest Breast Screen Patients Only spot, even though he has no breasts other than when he temporarily holds mine.
Pale and worried, my husband looks up. I can tell at a glance he’s wondering if I’m okay. He asks if I’m sore from the x-rays.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Good, I bought you some blueberries.”
I love berries and I love him for buying them, for driving me to my appointment though I told him not to bother.
“Did you worry for nothing again?”
“I have too much imagination.”
“You can say that again.”
“ I have too much…”
We crack up laughing.
Almost home, I tell him I got lollipops and a teabag from the clinic.
“Why would they give you a teabag?”
“A mammogram takes twenty minutes and could save a life. Tea takes twenty minutes as well, especially when you have it with cake and a friend. It reminds you how easy and manageable it is to be screened.”
“But, that’s not what you said yesterday.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
He came because he knows I’m a scaredy cat who overthinks everything. He sat waiting in a room that seemed to have vomited pink because he loves me and supports me when I need it. And, as a certified drama queen, I needed it.
Ten days on I had the letter in the mail. No sign of breast cancer, all clear. No need to come back for two more years unless anything changes.
And I will be back, with bells on.
It was a totally different experience beneath placards telling me to THINK PINK, or GET TO KNOW MY BREASTS! When more ladies arrived and tittered about the lollipops, which some hadn’t eaten for forty years, it felt celebratory.
While we chatted and giggled with each other and the compassionate receptionist, we felt better able to handle whatever was to come. Being immersed in the pretty in pink room seemed to reduce anxiety. The homely curtained and cushioned place removed the scared little girl feeling inside us all.
The most remarkable change is that we all knew someone struck down by breast cancer who lost their life in the past, but recently we knew so many more survivors. Women who got through the disease and came out stronger. Courageous friends and acquaintances, neighbours, sisters and mothers who we look up to because they fought the good fight and won.
Unexpectedly, it was a good exam. The donations and cupcakes worked some kind of women’s magic to create a life affirming free service.
Curtains, pelmets, teabags, blueberries, breasts, lollipops and hot pink everything; I’m happy I’m alright.
