Some things nobody likes doing. We pretty much have to do them, but we pretty much hate them. Most things aren't like this -- most things are a matter of taste, even the weird things. Search the world and you will find folks who enjoy eating roasted grubs, filling out forms or waiting in the DMV. But a few things, everyone hates.
For instance: mammograms.
Sure, we're glad that they exist. We're grateful that the data they vouchsafe saves lives. But undergoing them? Standing with one breast at a time pressed ludicrously flat, squeezed hurting-tight between two plates, manipulated by a stranger. Breath held, knowing that one is absorbing radiation. Knowing why.
Three years ago, after my annual mammogram, I had a "callback." That's what happens when something suspicious pops up in one or both of your images; they ask you back within a week to take another set. Callbacks are fairly common -- ten or more percent of routine mammograms result in callbacks, one clinician told me. Nevertheless, I was scared to death. Luckily, nothing was wrong, but some of that fear stayed: residual, like rust.
This year's appointment was last week. I had been dreading it, of course. The hospital where I always go is not some tony fancy place; it's in Oakland; I'm self-employed and have only the most basic health insurance. The hospital's breast center was relocated and redesigned since my last visit. The old center was stark and functional. Imagine my surprise -- after several embarrassing moments spent wandering lost in the corridors, having to ask male hospital workers the way to the breast center -- to find the new one resembling a spa.
A dreamy, ethereal foyer adorned with dramatic stones. A burbling fountain. Soft music. A playroom for kids. Colorful walls hung with art. Plump, stylish couches. Immaculate, as you would expect of hospitals, but in every other regard not like a hospital. Which allows us, waiting, to forget. Names called, ushered by a friendly pink-jacketed lady (not a smock: a jacket) into a butterfly-themed changing room, we trade our waist-up clothes for belted plush snow-white terrycloth robes. The lady guides us to a second waiting room. More rich colors. More comfy seating. One one wall, a huge flatscreen displays continuous footage of flowers.
Someone knew. Designing this place, someone knew exactly how much we dread these appointments, knew that most of us would rather be anywhere else but here, that many would rather be doing anything else in the world. Someone knew all about fear, even irrational fear. Someone realized the power of colors, flowers, smiles and style to soothe. It's not a miracle. But it works better than sitting in stark waiting rooms silently yelling at yourself to buck up, grow up, don't be such a baby.
