My First Mammogram at the age of 32

A panini press for boobs

Jul 06, 2025

This piece was inspired by the recent signing of the megabill in the U.S. I never planned on sharing this publicly, but now it feels important to put my experience as a Planned Parenthood patient into the world.

It’s been a year since the worst health scare of my young 33 years. It started one evening as my spouse and I were cuddling on the couch. She went to readjust and the back of her hand brushed against my left breast.

“What is that?”, she asked.

“What is what?”

“That lump, has that always been there?”

“Oh yeah! That’s always been there”, I answered… lying. I had actually just noticed them for myself in that past month or so.

Thankfully, she seemed to be convinced by my response and didn’t bring it up again.

That was July of 2024 and I can honestly say that moment was the catalyst for changing quite literally everything in my life.

I spent the next month trying to convince myself those lumps (it wasn’t just one) would go away. But every morning, there they were. And every morning there I was, crying in the shower, picturing what the rest of my life was to look like if these lumps were what I expected.

I was holding onto the tiniest sliver of hope because my body felt normal and there were no physical indications that would point to these lumps being cancerous.

Something you should know about me: I don’t play the Dr. Google game. Not for me, not for my spouse, not for my dog. I just don’t do it. Why would I bring more anxiety to myself when I’m already on the edge of panic? I also don’t make appointments to see a doctor even when I am sick.

I’m trying to work on that avoidance tendency… But I’m also avoiding that🙃

I was 1000000% avoiding making an appointment to have these lumps checked out. Why? Well, a few reasons - like I mentioned, I was hoping they would simply go away. Just redissolve into my body so I could move on like nothing happened. Also, because we didn’t have health insurance nor the disposable income to pay for the imaging I would likely need to know what these lumps were.

About a month goes by, and I’m panicked enough to make an appointment at the Planned Parenthood in Anchorage after remembering a close friend had been treated there for an infection about a year or so prior. She also did not have health insurance, and based on what I knew about Planned Parenthood, I thought it would be the most affordable option.

The appointment date approached, and I was still silently crying in the shower each morning as my wife had no idea about this appointment.

I didn’t tell her because I’ve witnessed a loved one lose a battle to breast cancer. Anyone who knows what that’s like, knows the guttural despair that brings to everyone around you.

I cried every morning in the shower, not for myself, but because I knew what the possible outcome would do and look like for my loved ones. The possibility of them watching me battle breast cancer was more than terrifying. It just about broke me, and I couldn’t bear to put that worry into my wife’s mind unless I knew for sure what we were dealing with.

The morning of my appointment came, and I decided to tell her about it.

I told her because we share each other’s locations. I imagined the slim chance of her seeing my location for that hour timeframe and wondering what the heck I was doing at a Planned Parenthood. I could only imagine every explanation running through her mind about why I was there on a random Tuesday.

I was already carrying the weight of too much, so I needed to be honest with her.

She could tell I was nervous and kept a brave face for the both of us that day.

Here is where I want to stress my experience with Planned Parenthood…

I picked that clinic specifically because they are experienced with patients who do not have health insurance. Because they are well-versed in any options of government funding that could help make receiving care more affordable.

I made the appointment knowing full well I could be walking through crowds of protestors I’d seen when passing the clinic on multiple occasions. I made the appointment knowing there was a possibility I would be screamed at, or called a murderer without them even knowing my appointment was for a cancer screening, not an abortion.

Thankfully, there were not protestors that day. Thankfully, the staff were educated and experienced in treating patients without health insurance and immediately had me sign up for the government assistance program to cover the cost of imaging if it were necessary.

The medical professionals I was treated by that day were so warm, kind, and gentle.

Unfortunately, I didn’t walk out of there with answers— but a referral for a mammogram and ultrasound.

I felt simultaneous relief and anxiety. Relief because I was no longer keeping this situation from my wife. And anxiety because I still didn’t have answers; if anything, it just proved my suspicion that I should be worried about these lumps as correct.

Another week of crying in the shower, sprinkled with somberness around our home, not knowing what to expect.

Finally, imaging day came, and the weather directly reflected my physical and emotional state. Dreary and rainy. And somehow, if it was even possible, the city felt quieter that day.

I was a fresh 32 years old walking into my first mammogram appointment. How is this possible? I thought for sure I had at least ten more years before I needed one of these. But there I was, sitting in the changing room wearing a hospital-type gown, feeling the heaviness of all the other women who’d been in my position. Feeling closer than ever to my aunt, who I witnessed die from breast cancer. I could feel her holding my hand while I waited for the technician.

And then, I went in and had my breasts mangled and squished over and over for the next 20 minutes in this giant panini-press-for-boobs-machine.

Then it was time for the ultrasound. I thought the mammogram was painful; this was worse.

Was this pain all in my head? Were these lumps getting more sensitive?

Thankfully, the images were able to be sent off immediately to a radiologist who read them before I left the appointment. She shared the news that the lumps in my breast were not cancerous but a somewhat common type of fibroid.

She briefly explained there was a very low chance they could become cancerous, but I was recommended a follow-up in 6 months to see if anything had changed.

Of course, this news was the best-case scenario, but I had such an anxiety hangover it took me about a week to recover.

Fast forward 6 months when I’m due for the follow-up.

We’re no longer living in Alaska, and we still do not have health insurance, so I set out to see if Arizona has the same government programs for uninsured residents. Surely, if Alaska has a program for this, Arizona would too.

After one quick phone call to the local Planned Parenthood, I’m told they do not.

So I don’t make another appointment. Because we can’t afford it.

And I sit here writing, hoping nothing has changed, I’ll wait until my wife or I land a job where health insurance is provided, or we have enough disposable income to afford it ourselves.

I know my story is not unique as there are currently 26 million Americans living without health insurance. And with the newest bill being signed, there are now 200 Planned Parenthood clinics at risk of shutting down from lack of funding. That results in 1 million Americans losing access to affordable1 essential health services.

From what I’ve seen circling the media, Planned Parenthood is taking action to sue the current administration over the funding cuts. I hope the clinics are able to stay open and continue giving quality care to patients in situations like mine. Truth be told, I got lucky, it could have been much worse.

I do not have the answers to solve this, and I don’t share this story for sympathy. I never planned to share this experience because it really rocked me to my core. I simply hope this story sheds light on what it’s like to live without health insurance and receive care from a clinic that, in the eyes of many, is ONLY a place where pregnant women go to have an abortion. When that is just one of the many services they provide.

If you’ve made it this far, thanks for sticking around. I’m happy to answer any questions about my experience or give a more detailed description of what it’s like to receive a mammogram when you have the smallest boobs on the face of the Earth. Bless that technician who was able to work some magic and get my tiny boobs into that giant panini press.

‘Til next time🫶🏼

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