The Man-Mogram

"When pride comes, then comes disgrace; but with humility comes wisdom."

Proverbs 11:2, New International Version

"Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification."

John Donne

Randy Travis sang in the classic country song "1982," "They say hindsight's 20/20 but I'm nearly going blind." When you think about it, that makes a lot of sense. Looking back on things, we can see them clearly but often if it is unpleasant, we choose to still not see it for what it is. Most of us have been through something we would rather not look back on with the clarity that time and distance give us so we choose to remember it the way that makes us feel the most comfortable. This, of course, is usually not a great idea.

My eye-opener came in the spring of 2012, and looking back, I should have recognized it for that instead of treating it as no big deal. I am usually pretty good at dealing with things and accepting difficulties that life throws my way. But we all have times when, in retrospect, we would have done things differently. I believe the Lord was trying to tell me something that spring, but I chose to look at it blindly instead of realistically, and several months later my whole world almost came crashing down on me. It went a little something like this.

One day when I was coming home from educating the youth at the juvenile detention facility where I teach, I noticed the seatbelt was rubbing across my right nipple and it was rather painful. I thought maybe one of my three rambunctious kids had hit me there by accident and left a bruise in that sensitive area. When I got home and started feeling around, I discovered a knot right under the skin by the nipple. Needless to say, I freaked out. The knot wasn't excruciating but it was painful and uncomfortable to touch. So I did what any guy who loves and respects his wife utterly and completely would do: I didn't tell her about it for nearly a month. I figured it would clear up sooner or later.

Naturally, it didn't happen that way and eventually I broke down and told my wife, Kristy, what was happening. By this time I was really starting to get paranoid. There was so much in the news about men getting breast cancer and I was greatly concerned. I did not have a doctor at the time; the one I had been seeing was no longer in private practice. Kristy called her doctor to get me an appointment ... but they could not see me until October. She went ahead and made the appointment so I could get in with her doctor, but my lumpy nipple hurt, and I wasn't going to wait almost six months to get it checked out. That's when things began to get weird.

Kristy has a friend who is a gynecologist, and she called to ask his opinion about what I needed to do. He told her, "Tell Brian to come by the office tomorrow, and I'll check him out. Tell him to tell the receptionist that he is here to see me, and that I know what it's about." I know what you're thinking, because I was thinking the same thing: How can this NOT go wrong? It had disaster written all over it.

I showed up at his office the following day, and to say I was hesitant about stepping inside the doors would be an understatement akin to saying the Titanic had a slight mishap in the Atlantic Ocean. I was completely and utterly freaked out and my mind was not put at ease when I entered the waiting room. I looked around and there were at least half a dozen elderly ladies waiting patiently to be seen by the doctor. I walked up to the receptionist and said, "I'm Brian Gross. I'm here to see the doctor. He knows what it's about." She looked at me, clearly puzzled, but then said, "OK." I wondered how many other guys had come in and said the same thing. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long before the good doctor came to get me because one can only stare at a floor for so long.

Unfortunately, being ushered back to the exam room did nothing to allay the hurricane of nerves I had swirling in my stomach. The doctor grabbed me by the elbow and almost started running down the hallway. I had the impression he really didn't want anyone to see him with me. The whole time he was muttering something incomprehensible to himself before saying, "Come on." When he finally got me into an exam room, he decided it was not the right place, and we then went in search of another room and found one: a storage room/broom closet. Actually, it had been an examination room at one time but was now the catch-all for things that weren't currently being used. Before rushing out of the room, he looked at me and said, "Take your shirt off." When he was in the hall, I overheard him tell a nurse, "There's a man in this room. Don't let anyone else go in there."

The wait seemed to last forever and it was pretty cold in the room. It struck me as a little strange that he had instructed no one to come into the room, but it also helped to calm my nerves for a few minutes as I stared at myself in the large mirror that was directly across from the chair in which I was sitting. There are many thoughts that rush through the mind of a nearly 400-pound, topless man as he sits in solitude, ogling himself in a large mirror. One of those thoughts was, I'm glad he told the nurse to not let anyone come in here.

Of course, someone didn't get the memo, and the look on the poor lady's face when she walked into the supply room and saw me sitting there bare-chested was beyond compare. I guarantee that a very large, half-naked man was the last thing she was expecting to see at work that day. She didn't know what to say and neither did I, so we just looked at each other for a few seconds, and then she mumbled something, grabbed what she was looking for and made a beeline for the door. I was wishing I could do the same thing. As she closed the door, I could hear her as she asked someone, "What is that man doing here?" The nurse who epically failed to keep anyone out replied, "He's here to see the doctor. No one was supposed to go in there."

From that point on I was taking no chances. I put my shirt back on while the storm in the pit of my stomach continued to rage. Shortly thereafter the doctor came back in and looked at me with an odd expression. He said, "I thought I told you to take your shirt off." Then he thought for a second and followed that up with, "Oh, yeah ... the nurse. OK, just pull your shirt up." He felt around my right breast for a few minutes, found the nodule, and asked some cursory questions. Upon completing the examination, he said, "I'm pretty sure the lump isn't serious. Losing weight will probably take care of it." I couldn't keep myself from thinking, I've dodged another bullet. I was abruptly brought out of my reverie, however, when he went on to tell me, "But just to make sure I want to get that checked out at the imaging center. Let's go up to the front desk so we can get you an appointment for a mammogram."

My mind started racing, and I wasn't so sure I heard him correctly. He assured me it was only to confirm the lump was what he thought it was and not something significant. He paraded me up to the receptionist I had spoken to earlier, and he said loud enough for the people in the building across the street to hear, "Call imaging and get this man scheduled for a mammogram." OK, so his volume was not quite that loud, but he was no longer acting as if this were some kind of clandestine mission, perhaps because the cover had been blown by the unsuspecting nurse.

As I was leaving the office, relief washed over me. I was glad to be getting out of that bizarre situation, and I was hanging onto the fact that he was reasonably sure it was nothing serious.

I was a little freaked out by needing to have a mammogram, but the whole situation was beginning to get funnier. Being the self-deprecating soul I am, I couldn't help but wonder to myself, When a man has a mammogram, is the proper term for it a man-mogram? The thought made me chuckle at the humiliation I had just subjected myself to and made me wonder what would be in store for me when I actually had my man-mogram.

May 2, 2012, The Day of the Man-Mogram

Other than Kristy, I had told no one of my ordeal at the gynecologist. I had debated telling my brothers, Artie and Greg, about it because they would have gotten a good laugh out of the story, but ultimately the embarrassment of the situation led me to reconsider that idea. I was just hoping the manmogram would not be as emasculating as the gyno visit had been. Thankfully, that wish was granted, but the visit to the Women's Center was not without discomfort.

The appointment was scheduled for the following week, which was good for if it had been any longer I may have talked myself out of going. I was hoping the waiting room of the Women's Center would not be as full as the one at the doctor's office, and, much to my surprise, it wasn't. I was the only one there. The receptionist checked me in and said it would be just a few minutes.

I didn't have to wait long and only one person came in while I was waiting. But as soon as the door opened and the technician called me back, I knew I was in for an awkward situation. I knew the technician. Our kids had gone to the same daycare for years, and I was just hoping she wouldn't recognize me.

She did and the first thing she said to me was, "How's Brayden doing? Is he playing baseball this year?" So much for her not recognizing me. I knew it was going to be weird to disrobe for whoever the technician was, but was it too much to ask for it to be someone I didn't know? I didn't think so, but here I found myself half-naked again, getting a breast exam from someone who knew my kids and wanted to engage in small talk. But the discomfort wasn't just emotional. The physical aspect of a manmogram was pretty awkward as well.

For those guys who have never had the man-mogram, let me tell you, it's not fun. Imagine sticking your breast in a vise and getting it smashed. It wasn't painful but it was uncomfortable.

In the end, however, it was worth all the embarrassment and emasculation that came with the entire experience to find out I had a relatively minor condition known as gynecomastia, or in layman's terms, an abnormal enlargement of the male breast.

I was greatly relieved to find out I didn't have cancer or any other serious disease. I had a condition that was sometimes painful but could be reversed if I lost weight. I had gotten a free pass once again, or so I thought at the time. Other than some humiliation and a sensitive nipple, I was pretty much unscathed. Kristy was quick to point out that I had a mammogram before she did, and not just any woman can make that claim about her husband. I tried to explain to her that she didn't understand the awkward predicament I had been in at the gynecologist's office and at the Women's Center. She rolled her eyes and began talking about twenty-seven months of prenatal care, three labors and deliveries, and annual visits to the gynecologist. I'm not sure what her point was, but I'm pretty sure she didn't get mine, and she certainly didn't sympathize with me.

Looking back, though, gynecomastia was the first sign of a more serious, underlying health problem. My blasé attitude toward the diagnosis and the doctor's assertion that I needed to lose weight had no impact on me. I shrugged it off and chose to act as if nothing had ever happened. As I stated earlier, Randy Travis knew what he was singing about. Hindsight is indeed 20/20 but when you see the truth for what you want it to be instead of what it actually is, you might as well be blind. After six months of doing nothing to improve my situation, it was time for the blinders to come off. This time, though, there was much more urgency.

Infield Flies, EKGs, and Diarrhea

"Come to me, all of you who are tired and have heavy loads, and I will give you rest. Accept my teachings and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in spirit, and you will find rest for your lives. The burden that I ask you to accept is easy; the load I give you to carry is light."

Matthew 11:28-30, New Century Version

"The most glorious moments in your life are not the so-called days of success, but rather those days when out of dejection and despair you feel rise in you a challenge to life, and the promise of future accomplishments."

Gustave Flaubert

I find it alarming how often we as humans take things for granted. We don't like to think we do, but we are only human and one of the things humans do is take things for granted. I freely admit I am guilty of doing so. And, as is so often the case, I was rudely presented a reality where I could no longer take certain things for granted.

When I went to bed on October 5, 2012, my biggest (and by far most petty) concern in life was the infield fly rule in Major League Baseball. You see, I am an Atlanta Braves super-fan, and the Braves happened to be playing the St. Louis Cardinals that evening in the first Wild Card Game in baseball history. Now, I was not a big fan of this newfangled system where a second wild card team was added in each league and the two teams would play in a one-game playoff to advance to the divisional series. The way this game turned out did nothing to endear me to the new format.

Let me set the stage for you (and if you aren't familiar with baseball, just bear with me for a minute): it was the bottom of the 8th, St. Louis leading 6-3, one out, runners on first and second when Atlanta rookie shortstop Andrelton Simmons hits a lazy fly ball to left field. St. Louis shortstop Pete Kozma drifts back into the outfield, peels off, and the ball falls harmlessly in between him and left fielder Matt Holliday. Bases loaded, one out and Braves slugger Brian McCann is coming to the plate. Alas, the baseball gods were not smiling on Atlanta. Inexplicably, left field umpire Sam Holbrook invoked the infield fly rule. The hitter was out, the runners advanced at their own risk, and chaos ensued. I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed.

My blood pressure was up, my nostrils were flared, I chucked something across the room, and nearly broke my hand when I smacked the floor. I have watched baseball my entire life and had never seen that type of call made in a game; and I conservatively estimate the number of games I have watched to be in the thousands. I'm a rational guy (most of the time), and I understand the intent of the infield fly rule is to keep the defense from duping the runners by letting the ball fall so they can turn an easy double or triple play. But the ball landed more than 200 feet from home plate! And what is the outfield ump doing calling an infield fly? Does that seem odd to anyone else?

Anyway, the Braves lost and I was steamed to the point I couldn't enjoy talking to my dad on his birthday, and my wife and kids were afraid to speak to me because I was in rabid fan mode. I hadn't been this crazed because of a baseball game since the 1999 World Series when the Braves laid a colossal egg against the Yankees, and I realized getting that bent out of shape over a game wasn't good for my health.

As a result of that terrible call, I wasn't able to sleep much that night and I hardly watched any of the subsequent games of the playoffs. But my ire over the infield fly rule and its application in the Wild Card Game quickly subsided as more pertinent issues arose. It was funny how something so trivial in my life became a burning issue and in a few short days was returned to its inconsequential place by a hard dose of reality. There is nothing like a bad doctor's visit to put things in proper perspective.

October 10

I don't know that I have ever met anyone who enjoys going to the doctor. Always in the past, going to the doctor meant getting some bad news and a lecture about being severely overweight. (Just so you know, I hate the terms obese and morbidly obese. I have no qualms about saying I was overweight or fat. Both sound much better to me than anything to do with obese.) I expected my cholesterol to be high, thought maybe my blood pressure would not be too good, and knew I would get a stern talking to about diet and exercise. Been there and done that before. Only it didn't happen that way.