When a Thoughtless Mammogram Reminder Reopened a Deep Cancer Wound

Several months ago my phone pinged with a notification of a text message from an unknown sender. My first thought was which scam was it this time? Was it the toll road fee I “failed” to pay or that package that won’t ever be delivered? Turns out it was neither. It was a message wishing me a happy birthday and prompting me to “start a birthday tradition that prioritizes my well-being” by scheduling a mammogram at a facility I had never been to before. Whoa, hold the phone. First of all, I’m not a huge fan of birthdays. And, second of all, I have metastatic breast cancer and had a double mastectomy with aesthetic flat closure mere days after my 40th birthday. I don’t need a mammogram, thank you very much.

As with any marketing campaign, you need to know your targeted audience. A person who has had a mastectomy is just not a fit for this situation. I’d like to see a mammography tech try to find any chest tissue worth squeezing on my scarred flat chest wall and to see their faces if my breastless self were to show up for an appointment. I’m assuming no one would notice I’m flat until it came time to disrobe.

These reminders are painfully triggering. I have accepted that cancer is a part of my life. I see it daily in the disfigurement caused by this disease, but to be reminded I should have a mammogram, on my birthday no less, is an experience no one in my situation should have to endure. The offending radiology group received an earful from me, and rightly so, after I was able to finally track them down.

After some digging, I discovered that the facility I had used in the past for radiation mapping was bought out by a corporation that now had access to my medical records, which clearly states I have no breast tissue. Whoever was in charge of marketing text messages obviously didn’t read my records or were so tone-deaf they didn’t bother to look at all.

The sting of that thoughtless text stayed with me, a reminder of how often healthcare systems can miss the mark and overlook the realities of patients like me. That frustration resurfaced as I faced another challenge: arranging my upcoming scans to monitor my disease. At my last oncology appointment, when the receptionist asked where I'd like to go, I chose the same facility I've trusted for 11 years, hoping for familiarity and ease. No problem, she would fax the orders and I could call to set up a day and time. But, she said… they were bought out by another company. Aaagh! The imaging center I have used since my diagnosis in 2014 is now owned by the offending mammo spammers. You can imagine my disappointment.

Scans create anxiety all on their own. This adds yet another layer to this multi-layered birthday cake. It took everything I had to suck it up and have these scans done by the mammo spammers. I unsuccessfully attempted to find a different local facility that isn't affiliated with this company and came to the conclusion they now have a monopoly in my area.

Prior to my appointment, I learned the facility no longer had a nurse to access ports for contrast, which spiked my anxiety. After some self-advocacy, the radiologist agreed to handle it. As we chatted while he was accessing my port, I shared my frustration with the new company and the text message fiasco. He and my favorite tech agreed the corporate takeover had worsened things, expressing hope for change. The process went smoothly, but the experience underscored the company's disconnect.

When my results were posted later that day in the portal I couldn’t access anything other than the scan pictures. I would have to wait another agonizing day.

The notification came the next morning from my oncologist with a message of no evidence of active disease (NEAD) and I immediately could feel the lightness of thousands of untethered birthday balloons lifting away the scanxiety that had been plaguing me in the weeks leading up to my scan appointment.

Here’s to more birthdays, more clean scans and living every day as best we can despite cancer.

And to the mammo spammers, let them eat cake, just not my celebratory slice.