The Squisher AKA “Selena”

The gynecological exam can be the most feared—and briefest— moment in a woman’s year. The year I turned 37 I made my annual pilgrimage to what was some of my crasser friends call “the Cave Man” — Cave Woman, in my case.

For my visit, I was lucky enough to get the new chair. The new chairs tipped me backwards until I was almost vertical, with my head pointing down and my knees towards the ceiling. I assume it gives the doctor a more optimal view.

From below, the doctor chirped that everything, “looked good” from her vantage point. She looked at her chart and eyed me from behind her clipboard.

“I see you’re 37,” she said. “How about a mammogram, just to get a baseline.”

As a very conscientious, mature woman, I knew this was the right thing to do.

“Yup,” I agreed, and the doctor handed me a prescription and was gone. The entire exam – the breast, the pelvic, the prescription – was just about 10 minutes long.

But I was proud. I was doing the mature, responsible thing. Thirty-seven had been a hard hill to take, but I was oddly proud of my age and was enjoying some of the tasks that came with it, even a mammogram.

Two days later, I arrived right on time with my date with “The Squisher.” I was immediately shown to a small changing room by a broad, yet pleasant woman in cranberry-colored scrubs. She handed me a cranberry-colored hospital gown (I guess cranberry serves as some sort diversion) and told me to change.

After I stripped from the neck down and donned the cran-a-gown, I was ushered to a small, warmly-lit room decorated with calming caramel tones and dried flowers. In the center of the room was “The Squisher.” It was called “Selena”. Pretty.

The technician in cranberry—I think her name was Lisa—positioned me against Selena and started to manipulate my breast into place. As barely a B-Cup, this was not easy. She pushed, pulled, and mashed my teeny breast into place, then smushed it between two plates. When I thought it could not be smushed any more, Lisa turned a crank and proved me wrong.

“Don’t breathe,” she said and disappeared behind the wall.

Don’t worry, I thought.

Lisa appeared, moved to the other breast and followed the same procedure. Then two more times for the side view.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Lisa chimed.

“Not so bad!!! I thought, “How could you do this to other women!!! You … you… TRAITOR TO OUR GENDER!!!!”

But, it was over. Much like my gynecological exam – it was a thankfully brief ordeal. I was told to go home and wait for the results. But why worry – this was for the “baseline” and there was no history of breast cancer in my family. Besides, nothing bad ever happens to the Morrisons, so I had nothing to be concerned about.

Three days later I was holding a letter that requested “Additional Evaluation” and calling the imaging center for a second appointment. The receptionist cheerfully assured me, “Oh, we just need to take some more pictures.”

I knew what it was all about: body lotion.

I was told not to wear deodorant, perfume, or lotion the day of my mammogram. That morning, I forgot and put some of my “Tupelo Honey” lotion on my legs. That must have interfered with the x-ray.

I had to sit through a weekend before my next appointment, but I was not worried. It was the lotion, right?

But those two days gave me a lot of time to think about my breasts. They’re cute, but no one would call them “spectacular.” I was barely a B-cup and proud of my perky stature. I could wear cute little t-shirts or low-cut sweaters without looking ridiculous or slutty. I would never sag, unlike my sister Liz – a double-D—who had to do numerous chest presses to keep her girls off the floor.

Alas, I was often teased about their size. When Liz’s friends would meet me for the first time, they’d give me that what-in-the-hell-happened-to-you look. I’d be a rich woman if I had a dime for every, “She is NOTHING like her sister,” I heard.

Like all women, my breasts—as perky as they were—make me feel attractive and feminine. They are womanly and beautiful and soft. Deep, deep down inside, I even enjoyed when a guy’s eyes would wander downward and not meet mine.

That weekend I also thought about probability. I was the sixth of seven children – the probability of all of us leading long, healthy lives was always something I questioned. I had always been on the verge of being a hypochondriac and concluded that if a Morrison was going to deal with disease, it would be me. Even though I told myself that Tupelo Honey lotion was to blame, my mind was filled with worst-case scenarios.

My appointment was for 2:00 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. My plan was to leave the office after lunch, go to my appointment, and be home in time for a 4:00 call with my boss Kathi and the marketing team. Easy-schmeazy.

But my brain kept throwing up possibilities: What if I’m sick? What if I have “it”? Will I lose my breast? My hair? What if I can’t take care of myself? Will I die?

I’ll never fall in love . . . never dance at my wedding . . . never be pregnant . . . never hold my sleeping, little girl in my arms.

My brave front was just that . . . a front.

Kathi, whose capacity to care was greater than that of the entire 2006 Penn State graduating class, assured me that this second date with “The Squisher” was normal. As I left my office that Monday, her compassionate eyes let me know that she was thinking about my breasts, but not in a creepy, I-should-involve-HR way.

When it comes to a mammogram, two words you don’t want to hear are, “Extra Compression.” I had a vision of my nipples popping under the pressure. Why would I need extra compression for my teeny boobies?

But Lisa informed me that this was not the case. I was just ushered into the same caramel-colored room with the dried flowers. There was no explanation other than “Extra Compression.” Was it a cyst, tumor, water on the knee, body lotion? Lisa just maneuvered me against The Squisher and pulled, pushed, and mashed my breast into place: two front views, two side views.

“Okay,” Lisa said, “just sit here and I’ll be right back.”

I sat in the comfy chair in the corner of the caramel-colored room and held by cranagown closed over my sore breasts. My mind kept running, “What’s wrong, what do they see?”

Lisa walked back in the room. “We just need to take a few more pictures.” More compressions and more x-rays—this time focused on the left side of my left breast.

“Okay, come with me,” and Lisa lead me out of the room back to the small changing room. “Now, sit here,” she said, “but don’t get dressed.”

I waited a few more minutes, looking at my watch. . . 2:40, I needed to be out by 3:15 to get home in time for the meeting.

The door opened.

“Barbara?” a motherly woman in her fifties was smiling at me. “Hi, I’m Carol. I’ll be doing the sonogram. Come this way.” She held out her arm, and I followed her to another, darker room. I lay down on the examining table and opened the cranagown.

Carol had short, wavy blond-gray hair. She wore blue liner on her upper eyelid and pink lipstick – the typical make-up of a motherly technician in her fifties. Even the white cotton sweater over her blue scrubs said, “I’m here to comfort you, dear.”

“Okay,” she said (they always start with “okay”), “just put your arm over your head. I’m going to put on some gel; it’ll be a little cold.”

The gel was cool and – the best word to describe it was “goopy.” The lump in my throat was beginning to grow, and I turned my head away.

Carol moved the sensor slowly over my breast and hit some keys on the computer. My mind was racing with all the possibilities . . . tumor . . . cancer . . . chemotherapy. . . illness . . . pain . . . hospitals . . . needles . . . tests . . . tears . . . my mom . . . my dad. . . my sisters . . . nieces . . . nephews . . . my life . . . my breasts . . . what did they see?

Carol finished and handed me a towel to clean the goop off. She left the room to study the results. I looked at my watch, 3:15… I’ll have to take the call in my car.

Carol came back, “Okay (always with the “okay”); we just need a few more pictures. Are you pressed for time?”

My mind did a little flip. What more do they need?!?!?!?

“I just need to make a phone call,” I said. I dialed Kathi’s number and heard her chipper voice on the other end. “Hi, this is Kathi.”

You know when you’ve been holding back the tears, but as soon as you speak, the tears overpower you and your voice is several decibels higher and much faster?

“KathiitsBarbandI’mnotgoingtobeabletomakethe4:00meeting,” I rushed before I started to cry.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“You’re sure.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really?”

“Yep,Gottago.Seeyoutomorrow.Bye,” and I hung up the phone.

Back on the examining table, the cold sensor moved over my damn left breast, going back over the same section on the left side over and over again. Carol hit more keys on the computer. This time, my mind traveled to different places.

If the worst case scenario is true, how will I change my life? I’ll say “I love you” more often and “You’re pissing me off” when needed. I’ll give more time to play and less time to TV. I will not be too afraid or too lazy take a chance.

“We’re done,” Carol said. I think she saw my fear and finally decided to give me an explanation. “Looks like you have a few small cysts. Nothing bad, we just want to make sure. We’ll just get the radiologist to confirm.”

A few minutes later, the radiologist, an older Asian man with graying hair, confirmed three small cysts in my left breast. (Cyst: a fluid-filled mass that is usually benign.)

The lump in my throat vanished, and I wanted to laugh. But, I also felt a little ridiculous; there are many women who receive much worse news, and I was crying over some cysts.

Kathi, who I called from the parking lot, assured me that my worry was righteous. “That was sooooooooooo scary, Babs,” she said. “You were right to be worried. Don’t ever deny your feelings – and don’t ever scare me like that again!”

Did my care with The Squisher inspire me to change my life? No, just affirmed my place in the wacky, scary, messy wonderful world of woman hood.