Oh, the humanity not at all.

I had a scary mammogram experience today.

Scary in that, after 15 films, an ultrasound and waiting in fear, I was told not to worry, that it’s just a cyst. There was no way I could have felt it. They will send me the results. Sorry for the trouble.

Get dressed, go home. Smile, we’re not worried. Well, not now.

Yea, it was that underwhelming.

As I sit here now, writing this entry, my fingers are still shaky. I am almost teary. I am almost settled. I haven’t been this scared since I got my liver diagnosis. But this fear was unique in that it was shared by all the women detained in the waiting room.

Shared but not soothed by any of the folks that could take the sting out of uncertainty: the hospital staff.

I guess I should set the scene. I’m more than 40 years old, so I mammogram yearly. The process is you check in, you’re brought to a waiting room, given a gown, escorted to a locker, told to disrobe and wait.

In the waiting room, (which I am convinced is the same temperature as a meat locker) are similarly dressed women of all ages. Some are like me, there for their yearly. Some have beat cancer. Some found out cancer has returned.

All of us waiting for someone to smash our boobs.

A person calls your name, you go back, have films taken and are reseated. This is where the real waiting starts, where the tension builds, where the fear starts to take root. You wait while the doc reads the x-ray.

Some women will sit and thenm just a few minutes later, will get word that they're good to go, things are fine. They’re handed a paper and they get dressed. Done for a year.

Others will have films retaken. They too, usually, are told things are just fine, just needed a better angle. Off you go.

Still others will go in a third time. And each time, they come back to the main group, looking a bit ... concerned. Not yet frightened to the bone, but a bit troubled.

I was called back four times. I returned to that small waiting room three times. The fourth, they asked me to just sit in the mammogram room. They returned to make sure I didn’t have a mole on my right breast.

So, I surmised. They found…. something. Something worrisome.

I had 15 shots or films done on both breasts. Each time I was told not to worry. (gimme a break) They even handed me a pink laminated sheet that read “Don't worry, this is not unusual.” Ah, the human touch of plastic.

I am taken to an ultrasound room. Most of us love this place -- it's where we see our babies for the first time. Since my liver diagnosis, I have come to regard this area as the "finding things wrong with me" room.

They put the warm goo on my right breast, roll me slightly over, strategically place my right arm between my face the machine screen and start looking for something wrong.

The tech does her work quickly, telling me exactly where she’s taking pictures but being sketchy about what she is looking for. I stare off into space, trying to look like this is all normal.

But there is nothing normal about this and that’s the point. All of this testing, the true underpinning of it all, is that they’re looking for something abnormal. Looking for cancer.

Back to the US table. The doc comes in after the tech finishes, looks at her screen shots, does her own shots as well, and determines that it’s what she thought it was: a benign cyst.

“I’m sorry we kept you here so long. This is exactly what I thought it was: a cyst. I’m not worried. Thanks so much.” And she left.

I am brought back to the waiting room that is now completely empty. The entire process was two hours long. During that time I was patient, bored, annoyed, afraid something could be wrong, and, finally, afraid for my life and the life of my breast.

And then everything was back to normal. During all this, no one asked if I need a sip of water, a shoulder to lean on, or reassurance to settle my nerves. Someone did offer me a second gown when I was shivering. It wasn't from cold, but kind nonetheless.

We, as a country, spend a staggering amount of money touting the need for breast cancer awareness, the need for yearly mammograms, the virtues of living the good life so that you don’t lose your breasts or lives.

But why don’t we spend equal time reassuring the patient as she does what she’s told?

On that pink sheet I mentioned, that I was reading while the third set of x-rays was taken, that we as patients are not to discuss with other patients our health information, or inquire about our neighbor’s. To respect those that could be suffering.

Well, pardon me but, fuck that. A woman came in to get her breast examined, came back out, went back in and came out again crying. How am I supposed to sit next to her and not engage her? Let her cry, knowing there could only be one reason she was fine one minute and upset the next.

I got up and looked for some way to back into a conversation. I looked for a box of tissue. Twenty million ancient Forbes magazines and not one damn box of tissue for a woman whose breast is sick.

Where is compassion? Where is the humanity? Where is the person that says “Yes, this is taking longer. We’ve found something we want to take a closer look at. Let me tell you what we’ve found. Here’s your pictures. See that? Now, there is no way not to be upset, but rest assured. We are finding answers. Try to hang in there. Right now we haven’t found anything to worry about. Right now, we don’t think its cancer. If we do, you will be the first to know.”

Where is my advocate when I need her the most? Sure, I am my best line of defense. But during those moments while I was being examined, I was wondering if my daughter Maddie could live without her mom. Had I said everything I need to? Would she take up the care of Harry when the time comes? Had I things undone to do?

Maybe I am overdramatic. But you get the point. Medicine is losing the one thing we need the most. Compassion.

I will probably write about this again. Experiences stir passion. This is one of those times. And if you ever need a person to lean on, to listen about your health scare, I am right here.

It’s the least I can do. And I am going to do it.