I Survived My First Mammogram (and Got a KitKat to Prove It)

The day I turned 40, I celebrated with a Prince dance party, a decadent chocolate cake and a vow to delay getting a mammogram for as long as possible. I’d heard too many tales about this rite of passage for women, and I wanted no part of it. The whole procedure sounded like a crime against femininity, an unforgivable squeeze on the very essence of youth and joy. Friends and internet strangers alike warned me: “It’s awful,” “It’s like putting your chest in a medieval vice,” and, my favorite, “Say goodbye to your dignity—and possibly your soul!” Terrifying stuff.

Fast forward six years. I’m now 46, and this mammogram thing just couldn’t be ignored anymore. I had gone for an x-ray to see about my bad back and the tech saw ‘something’ sitting in my chest.

“Is that breast cancer?” I yelped.
“I honestly don’t know what that is…” he admitted, eyes transfixed on the *formless blob hovering in my rib cage.

Well, “I don’t know” is much better than a definite cancer prognosis. Still, with an unknown entity residing so close to my lungs, the prudent thing to do would be to investigate. There I was, still dragging my feet, but finally, the dread got outpaced by the looming realization that this wasn’t about squeezing memories out of my chest but rather about protecting what lies beneath them. Living here in George, South Africa, I had no excuse. Keystone Radiology has a mobile screening trailer that brings mammograms directly to you. So, I booked an appointment, half expecting to make a dramatic scene and weep as I marched toward the trailer.

Prelude to The Mammogram

I’d been bracing myself for an industrial horror show, but when I walked up to the mobile trailer parked strategically in the field of one of our local primary schools, I was caught off guard. Up close, it looked like a purple and pink fairy fantasy world for women edging towards menopause. The interior? Clean, comfortable, and—jazz music playing softly in the background. I’m sorry, was I here to save my life or for a bossa nova dance lesson? This was not the grating, clinical horror show I’d been warned about.

An elderly radiologist greeted me with as much warmth as she could muster. (I had stood at the gate screeching “Helllooo?!?” before she burst through the door, tersely advising me that it was not locked.) Eventually, her frost melted when I told her that this was my first screening. She even laughed when I told her about my six-year delay because I’d been “mentally unprepared.” She assured me it would be quick, and just like that, she handed me an open-front cape, noted that it matched my nails and pointed me to a little area to change. As I looked at myself in the mirror, draped in a half-open gown, I thought, “Well, here we go. If this is where my spirit leaves my body, at least they have smooth jazz on standby.”

The Mammogram Moment

Now, let’s talk about the machine: Big Bertha. In my mind, this machine was the enemy—a massive, unforgiving contraption designed to turn a woman’s chest into a pancake. But to my surprise, the machine was… unremarkable? It was just a fancy, very clean x-ray device. And while it did involve some maneuvering—“Okay, lean in a little more,” “Lift your chin,” “Perfect, just stay like that”—it wasn’t the nightmare I’d built up in my head. There were no clangs, no painful pinches, and certainly no vice grip. I thought back to the many tales of breast-flattening terror, wondering if it was actually that bad or had my breasts just become accustomed to being manhandled by the numerous entities – nursing babies, overly enthusiastic boyfriends during my teen dating years, and now the family Labrador who head butts my chest at every opportunity – and had now gone numb.

Yes, the machine does apply some pressure, but the discomfort was mild and brief. It was more awkward than anything. But here’s the twist: the technician was so calm and reassuring, guiding me through each step like it was no big deal. She lifted my HH chest tissue with all the excitement of someone folding a pile of linen on a Saturday afternoon.

A Jazz-Infused Reality Check

As the jazz continued playing, I started to wonder why I’d put this off for so long. The procedure took maybe 15 minutes from start to finish. Was I uncomfortable? A little. Did it feel strange? Sure. But it wasn’t torture; it wasn’t even unpleasant. I’d felt more pinched wearing a strapless bra to a wedding, if I’m being honest.

For years, I’d let the myth of the “dreaded mammogram” cloud my judgment. I let fear—and a good amount of stubbornness—delay a screening that could, quite literally, save my life. I had to wonder how many other women out there were doing the same, allowing horror stories to fuel a delay that could cost them dearly. So, let me set the record straight: your first mammogram isn’t a horror show. In fact, with jazz music, a soft robe, and some light-hearted guidance, it’s far closer to an unusual spa treatment than a medieval torture chamber.

KitKat: The Sweet Taste of Survival

But here’s the kicker—when it was all done, and I’d successfully survived my initiation into mammogram world, the receptionist handed me a KitKat. Yes, you read that correctly. A chocolate bar, as a reward for my bravery. This was Keystone Radiology’s way of saying, “Well done! You did it! Here’s some sugar to sweeten the experience.” That chocolate tasted like victory. I had vanquished Bertha, the Boobie Bashing machine.

Takeaways (or, Why You Should Just Do It Already)

If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: don’t let the legends about mammograms scare you into a six-year delay like they did to me. Everyone’s experience is different, and I consider myself fortunate that my first time was not unpleasant. Keystone Radiology’s mobile mammogram unit made the experience so much easier than I’d imagined, and they’re doing amazing work bringing access to women like me, who might otherwise keep finding excuses not to get checked.

So, if you’re 40 and your mammogram is past due, or if you’re just letting fear hold you back, please—take it from me—just do it. This isn’t a piece of advice meant to be ignored like flossing or drinking more water. This is a priority, and honestly, you owe it to yourself to push past the myths. Besides, they’ve got jazz, warm staff, and if you’re lucky, a sweet chocolate reward at the end.

In short, a mammogram is just one more step in taking care of yourself. It’s not scary, it’s not unbearably painful, and yes, it’s even a little humorous if you let it be. Plus, where else can you say you’ve had your chest musically serenaded by a saxophone while getting a life-saving scan? It’s all part of the adventure, and it’s one worth taking.

*NB: The formless blob turned out to be a cyst in one of my breasts and nothing to worry about. According to the Mayo Clinic, they are very common in women between the ages of 35-50.