Caracas Mammogram

I had to have a mammogram in Caracas recently.

Scared, yes. Scary, no.

I found a lump in my breast in the shower last Friday afternoon. It was small, squishy and painful, so the doctor in me know that the lump was most likely not cancerous.

The woman in me, however, begged to argue that my brother had cancer, my aunt has breast cancer and I lost an uncle to colon cancer at a young age - and that is just on my Mom's side. Cancer is old friends with both sides of my family - so I know I have a better chance than most to have the big "C" bomb dropped on me.

I called my doctor and she got me in for a mammogram right away. I was to meet her at her office in the hospital at 0700. I arrived and went to her office. She had already sent her secretary to the radiology department to pull a number for me.

Yes, pull a number. Like at a meat counter.

Appointments for anything medical are pretty much nonexistant in Venenzuela. You are told to come on a certain day, and it is first come, first serve. Get there early, and pull a number and they will get to you when they can. At least in the U.S. we pretend to have appointments. Sure, you most likely will sit there all day - but have a reason to be pissed off about it.

The doctor met me upstairs in the waiting room and asked if I had on deoderant. "Of course," I said. Well, it seems that the METAL (aluminum) in the deoderants is radiopaque and interferes with the mammograms. Duh. You would think that with a degree in geology AND medicine I could have figured that out on my own.

After a frenzied dash up to the restroom in her office where I had to strip off my blouse and then scrub my armpits in the sink with water and toliet paper, then rush back down to the waiting room for my turn.

Luckily, my number had been pulled for me, so I did not have to wait long. A beautiful woman dressed in the usual Venezlano fashion - low cut blouse showing maximum cleavage, skinny jeans, stiletto platform pumps, and a trim white low cut lab coat - called my name.

"Mah-ree Aw-bear?"

"Si." I replied.

Something in rapid fire venezuelan spanish that I am sure translated meant -" Follow me please."

She was very nice and professional and chatted with me in spanish as she clicked down the halls.

"Buenos dias, como vas?" Clickety click.

"Bien, y tu?" Me

"Chevre, chevre" Clickety click.

We arrived at the exam room and there was a modern looking mammography machine, a chair, and a paper blue vest. I quickly figured out that she was the radiologist technician who would be performing my mammogram itself. I really got a kick out of her outfit then. Just the thing to wear when a woman is in freak mode about her own breasts - why not just display yours to just a millimeter above the areola?

She WAS very professional and I had no qualms about her performing the exam. I am certain she told me that she was the technician but my spanish these days falls into four categories: Delivering babies, grocery shopping, chauffer instructions, and basic greetings. I have not reached the level of being able to understand "Hello, I am your radiologist technician. I will be performing your exam today."

We got through a basic questionaire (I read WAY better than I speak) and then she told me to change. She seemed genuinely surprised and a little amused that I did not have implants. I looked around for a bathroom or closet and a robe, but she pointed to the chair. I took off my blouse and bra and grabbed the blue vest. "No, no," she said and wagged her index finger at me.

I walked up to the machine naked from the waist up. Nothing like making a woman with a breast lump and body image issues walk naked infront of another woman with a push up bra and stilletos. She competently finished all of my radiographs and THEN I was allowed to put on the robe and wait for her to have the films cleared.

She returned five minutes later and told me that the quality of the films were good and I was free to go. I walked out, paid $350 BSF (about $50), and went home to await a call from my doctor.