Mam, oh mam, is this fun

They say inspiration can strike when you least expect it. Other times, it happens exactly when you think it will, like when I decided to write a column about getting a mammogram, while making paninis. 

 

YOU: “I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

ME: “Quit being so dramatic. It’s not like I got any chest hairs in them.”

YOU: “Oh my God, I’m never eating another sandwich again.”

In all seriousness, mammograms are something I’ve always been curious about. Well, that, and where babies come from – but one riddle at a time. To get to the bottom (or is it front?) of the mystique surrounding mammograms, I decided to schedule one to see what all of the fuss was about.

“But Bryce,” you might be saying, “you’re (probably) a man. How does that even work?”

Well, spoiler alert … not very well. 

But let’s back up a bit. To understand why I wanted to do this in the first place, you need to know a few things about me: 

1. I will jump at any opportunity to take my shirt off in a work setting (especially if it doesn’t end with a trip to HR).
2. I was raised by a single mom. A tough, no-nonsense woman. And I respect the heck out of her. So any time I can do something to understand the plight of women better, I want to take that opportunity. 

Speaking of the plight of women, my poor wife has been married to me for 15 LONG years, so first things first, round of applause there. But I also bring her up because, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always asserted that she’s less of a wuss than I am. (In fairness, she has also said this. So have my kids. As well as most amusement ride operators.) So know that this isn’t just me giving her lip service. It’s a fact. But I doubt I’m alone here. I’d wager to say that most men would agree women are, on the whole, the tougher sex. I mean, just based on science alone, it’s unarguable that women deal with some of nature’s most difficult tasks. Things like menstruation, childbirth and pretending to enjoy themselves while sitting through 10 “Fast & Furious” movies over the span of two decades. 

So, it was out of respect – well, that, and to be able to say, “Amen, sister!” whenever my wife talked about the unpleasantness of mammograms – that I decided to sign up for the imaging procedure that most women go through typically once a year. To make it happen, I reached out to Rebecca Leddy, M.D., MUSC Health’s director of breast imaging. 

I thought my request would be novel, but somewhat to my surprise, she said MUSC gives mammograms to, on average, a couple of men a week (mainly for a condition known as gynecomastia). So my visit wouldn’t be completely uncharted territory for mammography technician Kellie Adams. But don’t you worry, I still made things plenty awkward: 

ME: “More like a ‘man’nogram, amirite?”

KELLIE: “We’ll get a clearer image if you don’t talk.”

ME: “We’re still in the waiting room.”

Throughout the entire experience, Adams was compassionate and professional. You would have thought that she performs mammograms on men all the time. She calmly walked me through the procedure before asking me to take my shirt off and put on a gown. Then, she placed tiny stickers on my nipples. At the center of each was a small metal ball. 

“It’s so we know where the nipple is,” she told me. Sometimes they can look like a tumor or a mass on imaging, she explained. The stickers just cut out any confusion. Where confusion still exists, however, is why some patients ask if they can have extras to take home with them.

“I just give them some. I don’t ask questions,” she said, laughing. 

Once that was done, Adams gently walked me up to the 3D mammography machine. Then she turned me sideways, pushed my chest up against it and slowly clamped down a clear plastic tray on top of my right breast. Due to nerves, and just being an all-around disgusting human being, I had begun to get quite sweaty. This didn’t do us any favors, as I kept slipping out of the machine. The only thing missing was the “Benny Hill Show” theme song. Imagine trying to trap a fish between two sheets of ice, and that’s pretty much what Adams was up against. The only real solution was to press harder in order to keep my boys in place. 

And that’s when I got my first taste of the unpleasantness I’ve heard women talk about. 

“The smaller you are, the more you feel,” Adams said, not that she’s trying to start a competition with bigger chested men. 

After repeating this comedic routine three more times – Adams keeping her game face on the entire time, even though I had begun to laugh (and possibly cry a few times) – we were finally finished with all of my images. And just like that, I had completed my very first mammogram. Adams gave me a high-five. 

“You did great,” she said. 

And you know what? I think she was right. It wasn’t a blast, but I made it through and lived to tell (and of course complain) about it to my wife. I must admit, it’s a bit of a badge of honor to join the girls club and be able to know exactly what it’s like to have your breast smushed as flat as a, well, panini. Yeah, sorry to revisit that visual. 

That night, as I changed into my pajamas, I told my kids all about what I had done. At first, they laughed. But once the giggling subsided, I noticed a hint of something else in their eyes. They were looking at their dad – a man they dearly love, a man who had just done something proactive and health smart, a man who had set a good example for them – with, was it admiration? Pride? 

And then I realized I had forgotten to take my nipple stickers off. 

Got an idea for Bryce's next column? Send him an email at donovanb@musc.edu.