We all approach mammograms differently. For most of us, they’re a necessary annoyance. Others dread that genetic probabilities and possibilities will catch up with them. Still others don’t think about mammograms. They focus on the problem of the day rather than on prevention.
My breast cancer was detected with a self-exam. My doctor felt nothing abnormal and sent me home. After some self-doubt, I saw evidence of that tumor on a mammogram. The spider image changed my relationship with regular scans.
A couple years before my diagnosis, I was simply compliant. I squeezed mammograms in between work meetings. Then, as I describe in my Field Notes essay "Press On" (Fall-Winter 2025-26 Intima), I had my first unusual mammogram experience. The power went off a few seconds before the crush. My curiosity about the cause and any failsafe switches, combined with the poetic imperative voice of the technician, led me to take notes on the back cover of my magazine.
I submitted the piece I developed to a flash nonfiction journal. The star was a squirrel on a powerline. The piece was rejected. I now know it was not finished. My engagement with mammograms would grow. I would have a post-cancer mammogram to finish the Intima Field Note.
After my cancer diagnosis, the power failure became part of my baseline. “The time when” the squirrel messed up my mammogram. A little humorous but an insignificant blip in my life.
How we define our own baselines is important for processing illness and interacting with doctors. Is an ache or a fainting spell or even a lump a symptom—or is it part of the background?
In “How to Solve a Medical Mystery” (Spring 2022 Intima), Brian Deady describes the diagnosis of an ER patient with back pain. The CT scan shows metastatic breast cancer. Deady, an ER physician, blames himself for not taking a more detailed history and doing a breast exam. He highlights the patient’s “compartmentalized understanding of her own body.”
But for her, the rock-hard breast mass was part of her, a new normal. Not worth mentioning. “The breast doesn’t bother me. It’s my back that’s given me such misery,” she says.
We all failed her. We didn’t teach her how breast cancer progresses. We didn’t drive her to health checks and mammograms. We didn’t give her time off work or offer to babysit. We need a better baseline.
Rebecca Efroymson, a writer of creative nonfiction, is based in Asheville, North Carolina. She lives a double life, clinging to her federal environmental science career, with its wonderful people, in these challenging times. She has been in the care of physicians and physical therapists on many occasions and incorporates science in much of her work. She received the Leslie Garrett Award for Literary Fiction from the Knoxville Writer’s Guild. She grew up in Philadelphia and its suburbs and has a BA in biology and English from La Salle University and an MS and PhD in environmental toxicology from Cornell University. Her essay “Press On” appears in the Fall-Winter 2025-26 Intima.