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Friends bond, comfort each other at mammogram parties

  DALLAS — Even if the technician's voice is soothing, even if it's quick, even if it turns out OK, there are few moments more lonely than a mammogram's cold, metal squeeze.

But who would you want at your mammogram? Not your husband. Definitely not your kids. And although you still call her when you're sick, probably not your mother, either.

Facing her first lonely squeeze, Sally Swenholt did what she does best — talked to her friends. Like Sally, they were nervous about yearly mammograms, anxious about aging and scary results. The six women were all around 40, the age to make it a yearly ritual, and it had been far too long since they'd had some girl time.

So, they decided to make it a party.

"I just didn't want to go by myself," says Swenholt, 45. "And I hadn't seen my friends. You don't mean to lose touch, but you do anyway."

"We hung around each other as much as our kids did," Swenholt says of her group of friends.

But they're busy women with jobs, hobbies and 19 kids among them. Getting their mammograms together was the first time in ages they could sit down to talk, with only the nurse's beckon to interrupt them.

It took some explaining. Sally collected full names, ages and basic insurance info. She asked for six consecutive appointments, surprising the staff at Presbyterian Hospital's Women's Diagnostic & Breast Center in Dallas.

The friends called it Boobs 'N' Blazers day. Their appointments fell on the same day their sons first wore blazers to school as freshmen at Jesuit. They warned their sons not to forget their blazers and quietly used the school milestone as their own calendar marker: "Girls, don't forget our mammograms."

The party is a reminder as much as it is a tradition. With six friends looking forward to their day together, none will ever forget they need exams. Early on, they used their time in the waiting room to compare Christmas lists and their boys' classes. This year, with their sons away at college, the time is filled with old pictures and plans for lunch together.

Other women in the waiting room stare.

When they realize that the peals of laughter from the party corner are not going away, they start to smile and chat, too.

"I know who that is — you're the Jesuit ladies, right?" says Jacquelin Johnson-Sobers, a verification specialist at the center, rushing into the waiting room to see the group. "I look forward to this every year. It's Girls Day Out at the Doctor. It put the power back into this thing that's a drudge when you do it alone."

Swenholt's mother had breast cancer in the 1960s, but she told few people. Her mother quietly received treatment, survived a mastectomy and wore a prosthetic.

"It was hush-hush," Swenholt says. "You couldn't talk about it. My mother was brave, and my dad supported her all the way through.

"But I know I could call any one of my friends for any favor, and they would know what I'm talking about."

A few times, the party's tests have turned up lumps or growths that need to be watched. Last year, one of the women had a lump removed, but it wasn't malignant.

Of course, everybody in the group heard about it.

It's "instant support"

"You're taking instant support with you," Mason says, adding that most breast centers can probably accommodate groups with advance scheduling. "And I'm sure the staff enjoys it — a relaxed patient is much easier to interact with. For many women, getting a mammogram is very stressful."

The party changed the entire experience for Richardson resident Liz Conrad Goedecke. Now 53, she'd already started regular mammograms when Boobs 'N' Blazers day started.

"This is the ideal group medical experience — I wouldn't advise a group colonoscopy," says Goedecke, who works in marketing. This is, after all, a party.

"Bye, Lyn — good luck!" they yell to 45-year-old Lyn Koch as she ducks into her exam, waving and laughing nervously.

"Cheryl, where ya been?" they chortle as 48-year-old Cheryl Wood reappears, trading in her pink cape for a green sweater.

Out in the waiting room, Kerry Poer remains dressed in her jean jacket, a pink ribbon pinned to her collar. She was within one year of her last check-up, so her insurance wouldn't cover another mammogram just yet. She wouldn't miss the party, she says, but asks whether they can push back next year's gathering.

"We'll have to vote on that," 40-year-old Courtney Luttrell teases.

But quietly, everyone agrees: After six years together, somebody missing the party would be a disappointment.

Making one of your friends go through it alone would be unforgivable.

"I've had to come here by myself, and we just think we should do it together," says Poer, 42.

The staff moves mechanically through the six appointments in just more than an hour. The women compare technicians, the material making up their pink capes, their anxiety levels.

"I love this hospital," Swenholt says, sighing. "All my babies were born here. I'd check in right now if I could."

They laugh, and talk. Talk about everything — that terrible lunch from the other day, that beautiful jacket, that lump they're watching.

"I have to show you these pictures ... "

"A pink crusader? Now, I've been called a lot of things ... "