And That is the Breast of the Story

Dear Readers,

First off, let's just get this out of the way: if you're offended by things like breasts and hilarity, this blog post is not for you.  Stop reading now, Google "baby animals" and enjoy the images.  Otherwise, allow me to welcome you to the story of my morning.

Several years and at least three lifetimes ago when I was a young and dainty 16 years old, I was inducted into a study with the Huntsman Cancer Institute because my family carries the BRCA1 among many other renown gene mutations (ie the "Jackass Gene", "Relief Society Arm Gene", and the "Braegger Bug Eye Gene").  For those of you unfamiliar with BRCA1, it's the high risk breast cancer gene.   You may recall Angeline Jolie having a mastectomy not long ago because she too has the mutation (we have so many things in common!).  Anyhow, out of the three Badger girls, I won the gene lottery and inherited the mutation.  What this means for me is that I go through a lot of extra studies and tests that normal girls my age don't have to go through, which leads me to today's blog.

A couple months ago I had my first mammogram.  It wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, though it was fairly quick and painless.  The worst part was sitting in a small waiting room with three ladies who were at least 30 years older than me, and in the uncomfortable silence I blurted out, "What are the chances we'd all wear the same blouse?" referring to the hideous open-front hospital shirts we were wearing.  Instead of a laugh or two, I got chided by one of the blue-haired ninnies who said, "I don't think now is the time for jokes!"  Personally, I don't think there is a better time for jokes.  Anyhow, after the mammogram and a very lengthy four hour long consultation with the St. Luke's High Risk Breast Cancer Clinic (which I must say is comprised with a lovely group of people.  Seriously, they are the best!), the breast oncologist suggested that I get an MRI done as well.  "Sure!" I said.  "Whatever you think!  Plus, I have a couple thousand bucks just sitting around that I'd love to spend!" And the appointment was made.

They called me last week to brief me on the MRI, and told me that I couldn't have anything to drink within two hours of my appointment (which was set for 8:45am).  I woke up extra early this morning so I could follow their rules, but still have a cup of coffee.  I mention this, because had I not done that this story may have ended in murder.  But thankfully, I went into my appointment fully caffeinated.  Wearing a dress with footless tights, the sweet lady checking me in says, "You'll probably be more comfy in your tights than scrub pants, so why don't you just keep them on?  Just put on the scrub top and that should be fine!" I want to point out that I'm wearing tights: sheer, black tights.  Not leggings.  Not Spanx.  Just one-step-away-from-nylons tights.  And though tasteful, my undergarments are also sheer.  Also, being a Badger girl and what not, I was born "ranch-ready", meaning most people don't want to see me gallivanting about in tight anything.  So I step into the MRI room in my tights and a scrub shirt that barely covers my ass, and low and behold instead of the nice lady I had been working with, there stand two young and handsome male MRI techs!

Luckily, these young men were just as surprised to see me as I was them.  Apparently not a lot of women under the age of 50 come into their unit for breast exams.  Already, I'm mortified because it has occurred to me that they will be able to see right through my tights to my not appropriate at all for the occasion underpants, not to mention that I'll be completely exposed from the waste up.  "Hi.  Oh shit.  Hi," I said (sorry Mom!).  Fumbling his way through putting my IV in ("This is usually really easy for me!" He said), the youngster tells me to kneel on the MRI table, lift my shirt, and lower myself into the cutouts meant for my chestal region.  So I do as I'm told, and as awkwardly as possible fall into the holes where I feel a lot like a dairy cow must while preparing to be milked.  My butt exposed, the guy says, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if you have a blanket." To which I quickly replied, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if I have a blanket," and then added, "I'm sorry.  I think I'm hilarious when I'm nervous.  I should just say this is easily the most awkward situation I've ever been in, and I've been in a few."  He laughed as he adjusted my womanhood into the holes, "Don't worry.  This is awkward for me too, ha ha ha."

Finally, the adjusting is done, and I'm laying exposed and uncomfortable in a position that would never be appealing to anyone ever, and he sticks a set of headphones on me and asks me what radio station I prefer.  "Radio Boise please, 89.9," I reply, at least relieved that I can listen to Antler Crafts while I'm stuck in a tube.  "Sure thing!  This should take about 40 minutes.  It's really important that you don't move at all.  Take small breaths.  Don't cough.  Any movement could really mess this up, and we'll have to start all over.  Here we go!"  He pushes me back into the machine, and starts piping music into my ears.  It takes me two seconds to realize there's been a terrible mistake.  Instead of 89.9, he set the radio dial to 89.5, the Christian Rock station, and here I am strapped face down to a board, udders swinging, unable to move for 40 hellish minutes listening to the awful, horrible sounds of "HOLY HOLY HOLY" ringing through my head.  "I'm in Hell," I thought. "I'm a terrible person because I call people retarded and I laugh at jokes that I shouldn't laugh at and I really don't like dogs that much and I really hate some kids out there and I am now in Hell because I'm THE WORST."

Finally, 40 long minutes later, the hot guy comes in, pulls me out of the tube and removed the blasted headphones from my head.  I'm dizzy from laying face down and he has to catch me as I stumble off of the MRI table (still exposed, mind you) helps me get dressed and practically pushes me out of the MRI room.  I'm so thankful, so relieved to not be in this Christian Rock nightmare any more that it's only as I'm zipping up my dress that I realize that I still have the IV port in my arm.  "Shit," I said again.  It was my hope to never see these guys again.  But instead, I stumble back into the MRI room and just hold out my arm without a word.  "Oh, sorry about that," says the guy, quickly removing it, never making eye contact.  As I walk out the room and towards the exit, I passed the gal who had checked me in, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She cheerfully said.  I looked at her and looked away and kept walking without saying anything.

And that is the breast of the story.

Sincerely,
h.