The letter read that I needed to schedule a second mammogram for “further imaging.” There was no explanation beyond that, and I assumed the initial pictures were unclear. I have no family history. I’ve had three or four mammograms without incident.

But, when I entered the lab for further “images,” the technician had a different story to tell. “The doctors may have seen something.” She said plainly. “We need further images of your right breast. Put on this robe and I will come for you momentarily.”

I undressed and used the baby wipes to remove the deodorant from my underarms as instructed by the technician. I dutifully waited to be called. “Ms. Brodsky.” She said. “Follow me.”

We entered the same room where my original mammogram had taken place. She took my right breast out from the thin orange robe and placed it on on the cold metal apparatus that takes the pictures of the inside of my breast. “Turn your head to the left. Lean forward. Look this way.” She recited with breath that smelled like a rotting onion. I followed her directions. “Don’t breathe.” She demanded as the machine beeped and then paused. “You may breathe.” She stated, probably for the fortieth or fiftieth time today.

She waited for the image to appear on her screen, looked at it momentarily, and then approached me again. “We need to smooth out a wrinkle.” She said as she grabbed my breast and twisted it to the right. Then she lowered the heavy metal “smoosher” onto my breast until it lay like a pancake on the metal plate. “Now stay still.” She demanded. “Don’t breathe.” The machine beeped and then paused. “You may breathe.” She said. “We are done.” She said. I removed my lifeless breast from the machine and closed the flap of the robe over it. “Follow me. ” said stinky breath.

“What now?” I asked.
“Sit in this room with the other women.” She said. “Someone will be with you soon.” There were six other women in the room. All were bra-less beneath the light fabric of the various colored robes they wore. One had large breasts that sagged to her waist. Two others were small with tiny pert breasts. I wondered how the technician placed those small lemon breasts onto the metal platform of the mammogram machine.

Two women were covered in religious tunics from head to toe. All six read magazines or fiddled with their cell phones texting loved ones or business associates while they waited. I took a pamphlet from the pile on the table beside me. I read about breast cancer and mammograms, biopsies and statistics. After forty minutes, my technician returned. “The doctor wants another image of your right breast.” She stated. “Follow me.”

I returned to the original room and placed my right breast on the apparatus. “I will place it.” The technician snapped as she twisted my C-cup and smooshed it beneath the heavy weight of the mammography machine. “Don’t breathe.” She said. “I know, I know.” I thought as we went through the ritual again.

I returned to the waiting room. One of the women had left. The other five remained. I looked at them wondering if they were mothers like me. Were they married, single, professionals or students? Did they fear the worst or had they been here before? Did any of them have family histories? Did they read the brochure? Did they know that one in eight of us would have a malignancy?

“Ms. Brodsky,” the technician interrupted my thoughts. “The doctor ordered a sonogram. We’ll be back with you soon.” Then, she left. A sonogram? Did the doctor see something bad? Was my life about to change? I reflected on my age. Could this be a real threat? I thought about the women I knew with breast cancer: those who had won the battle, those who had lost and those who were still fighting. Would I be joining their ranks?

The technician returned and took me to yet another room. “Sit here.” She said. The doctor will be with you. I saw the image of my right breast on the computer screen before me. It looked like a smoky orb or an image of a faraway planet like Jupiter. I squinted. Did I see a small speck? Was there a “calcification” like I had read about in the brochure.

Dr. C entered the room. “Hello.” she offered without meeting my eyes. “I don’t think we have anything to be concerned about.” She started. “The mass only appeared on one image. That is promising.” Is it? I wondered.

She spread a cold jelly over my breast and placed another metal object on my breast. I remembered the sonograms of each of my babies: a small pea with a heartbeat in the center. This was different–empty and still.

“I have an incidental finding.” Said Dr. C. “It looks benign. Let me check it out.” She moved the metal probe along my breast. “See that?” She said while pointing on the screen to an empty dark pea in the milky mass that was my breast. It is a benign cyst– 7 millimeters. Nothing to worry about.” Ok. I thought. A benign cyst. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yes.” she said, you see, it is fluid-filled.” No, I don’t see. I thought. But, ok.

“You can get dressed.” Said Dr. C. “You’re good. We’ll see you again next year.” I took off the robe, wiped the sticky jelly off my breast and put on my bra and sweater.

As I left the building and headed to my car, I thought of the other six women in the waiting room. One in eight, the pamphlet had said. I prayed that like me, they were spared.