I’ve always appreciated a good tattoo, and the big spider resting on the inside of this forearm I’m looking at has gripped my attention. Even if I really hate spiders in their realized form, this one is serving a critical function in keeping me entertained within this otherwise sterile and overly-air-conditioned exam room.
“Numero diciannove?”
That’s how I was called for my appointment. Kind of like the deli counter at Stop & Shop. The one in Falmouth where the butchers hated when I’d ask them for a pound of shaved ham to bring home. It always put them through an excess of slicing action in the name of serving the needs of a single customer.
Now some 4,000 miles and 25 years away, the Italian technician who has called my number is now moving between me and a computer monitor. He asked me to remove my earrings, necklace and top. I nod as I reflect on the fact that I’m wearing a dress. I didn’t exactly do reading up for this visit. While he’s behind the monitor, I improvise by taking off my dress and wearing it upside-down. I know he doesn’t care either way, but at this point I still feel the need to preserve a modicum of my dignity.
The guy handling this visit is probably on the early side of his 30s. He’s young-looking, very stereotypically Italian and as such not hard on the eyes. He’s got more tattoos than the spider that I spotted from the waiting room, but exactly what else is going up his arm, I can’t really tell. Instead I breathe behind my face mask and patiently wait for him to stop clicking buttons.
“Back your feet up a bit. Now turn inwards some. Now look up. Up, more up. Brava.”
This exam is being conducted completely in Italian, and after the last eight months of language lessons, I feel good in knowing that I have at least the ability to understand the maneuvering commands of a complete stranger. The person with whom, after two minutes of interaction, I’m completely fine with him manhandling my breasts in the name of my livelihood. And it’s true. He’s pushing and pulling my bones and flesh in a way that highlights how not far we are removed from the carcasses that move through slaughterhouses and butcher shops. Pieces of meat that are moved about until they are arranged to one’s liking.
“È un fastidio?” Is it bothering you?
He asks me this on the first clamping evolution where one boob is sandwiched between the clutches of an x-ray machine that looks like something Johnny-Five would befriend. There’s not much small talk between me and the tech, but I imagine that we are about ten years in difference of age. He’d have no idea what I would be talking about if I mentioned the movie I have in my head that came out in 1986. This is because I am now not only old enough to remember watching this movie on a waterbed at my best friend’s Mashpee house— but it’s also the reason why I am here for a new kind of annual checkup.
It also makes me wonder if waterbeds are even a thing anymore.
As for the technician, he moves back and forth between the machine and the monitor. The work is a bit unusual. As I wait for him to be happy with the first result, I wonder if he ever imagined that this would one day be his job. Whenever it was that he once sat inside of a classroom, did he think “When I get older, I’m going to be muscling breast tissue around so that it can be squeezed between a modern yet medieval vice.” Probably not. But then I laugh to myself. I sure as hell never thought I would have grown up to be doing what I am right now, either
This squish and squash evolution will happen another five times, and for each iteration I use my very substandard military drill skills to follow the tech’s guidance as he tells me to lean over a bit. He takes my left hand. Instructs me to use it to pull the free hanging boob away. Glamour. Tattoos. Then, just when I feel as though I’ve successfully complied with his instructions, he uses both his hands to muscle my torso with surprising toil in order to position my body just right. Mammograms are weird.
Later, one of my sisters will tell me that she has “dense” tissue and despite subjecting herself to all of mild crushing sensations, her scans are still hard to interpret. I am not thinking about that right now. For some reason I keep referring back to the spider whenever it flashes back into my field of view. It’s completely black, about the span of my hand with fingers outstretched. It’s not quite a Black Widow, but it’s definitely not one of the bumbling Daddy Long-Legs that roamed our cellar when I was a kid.
Going for a mammogram marks a whole new realm of existence for me. I’m now old. Or older. But I also know that the ability to have these things done is not only a privilege, but it is a gift. It’s kinda like how I didn’t blink twice when the “peach” and “finger pointing” emojis were used in our family’s group chat. It was a celebration of one of us getting checked out. Not fun, but it’s reality. With age, our internal mechanisms don’t function as reliably as they used to. Decision-making doesn’t necessary become harder—it’s more like you no longer have a choice.
Back when I turned 16, my sister took me across the border to a tattoo parlor in Rhode Island (back then, getting tattoos in Massachusetts was illegal). I remember looking at all the designs, and in the end I couldn’t bring myself to just “pick something” that would stay on my body forever. I would need more time to think. Meanwhile, an older lady (older to me) had just done exactly that and selected the image of a lion that was posted between the two of us.
“I’m a Leo,” she told me as I looked at it, “It’s cool, right?”
You’re asking me? I was a clueless kid—but I remember having exactly two thoughts: One, that was a terrible tattoo. Two, I am a stranger to this woman so why is she looking to me for validation?
“Sure, it’s nice,” I replied. Then I turned and walked toward the chair where my sister was having some dark blue ink needled into the base of her neck. She was gritting her teeth. She had exercised her choice for another tattoo on her body. We are youthful bodies that we don’t yet imagine would require routine maintenance in the not-too-distant future.
I think about how I thought at 16, and how I think about things now some 27 years later. Life is wild and ridiculous. Some things are different, some things are the same; as for these two moments separated in time and space, I still appreciate quality ink.
My appointment in the Italian hospital room was finished after about 15 minutes. Since I’d demonstrated enough capacity to understand Italian, the tech spoke quickly about what was to come next. Something about results. Perhaps he motioned back to the waiting room. I feigned comprehension as I rushed to put my dress on upside-right. In my haste to move onto a more dull end of day, I nearly allowed myself to exit the exam room with one half of my right boob improperly reseated in the bra. I mashed my hand down my dress and rearranged things to a point of normal comfort. I too was now looking at my body as a piece of meat.
I returned to the waiting room for another ten minutes. Obviously keen to go, my impatience grew exponentially when Spider Man suddenly appeared behind the reception. His work was done, and he was chatting with the receptionists in order to pass the time. While intellectually I understood that to him I was just Number 19, for me I had no interest in seeing this guy ever again outside of an exam room. We’re meat, but we’re delicately aged with bundles of emotions intertwined. I walked up and got the attention of the receptionist on the opposite end of the counter.
“Do you need anything else from me?” I asked.
“No, nothing.” she answered. I still had no sense for whether I should be waiting for some kind of official document or follow-up slip. I decided not to wait. If somebody found something, they’d know how to find me.
When I walked out of the hospital, the sun was still shining. I put my headphones in, and turned on Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. Music from when I was younger that signaled escapism, music that has not only improved with time, but has found new meaning as I have aged.