I recently had to have a breast MRI done for diagnostic screening. I have the trifecta of bad luck in that I have a history of breast cancer on both sides of my family, I am now 40, and I have dense breasts. Unfortunately, having dense breasts means that regular mammography screening is insufficient for me. According to the American Cancer Society, ladies like me are at a higher risk for breast cancer and should have “MRIs each year along with their mammograms”. This is the first year that I have had to do the test, and so I pulled on my big girl pants and tried to make an appointment. 
As it turns out, breast MRIs must be conducted at a specific time within a women’s menstrual cycle, so I had to call on a specific day. Now, while this may seem innocuous enough, I work in an office and I am in one tiny cube in a sea of cubes that are not sound proof. So, conducting medical related calls is difficult and pretty much impossible to be done discreetly. So, each time I called to book, confirm, pre-authorize, re-confirm, and re-book again – I had to let everyone know exactly when my last menstrual cycle was and how many days I am from the start. I’m sure the software engineer in my neighboring cube was over-joyed by the onslaught of TMI.
Next, my new health insurance denied my doctor’s request to have a 3D mammogram, or Tomosynthesis, because the technology is too new!?!?? Hoag has been doing this screening since 2011, but apparently that is “too new” for my insurance. So my doctor opted to have me do a diagnostic mammogram and then the breast MRI. So the important point here is that the insurance coverage is now forcing my hand. But I digress. . .
So I make the appointment at my fabulous breast center that I have been going to for the last four years, bing, bang, boom. Done. Then I get a letter from my insurance company saying that why the test is deemed “medically necessary” my insurance is not accepted at that provider location. So I call up the insurance and try to figure out what breast centers are in-network providers. I get a whole new list and start calling to make appointments. Now I have 4 days to get an appointment for a 45-60 minute screening and a new preauthorization. Again, I am talking to several people sharing with them my cycle information and I’m getting increasingly agitated. So, now I am yelling in the office. . . about my cycle. . . and breasts.
The new breast center needs my records, but my doctor’s office is too busy and cannot provide them in time to get my pre-authorization. So, I drive to the previous breast center to get my scans and reports from the previous years and drive them over to the new breast center. I am beyond angry at this point and I don’t even want the damn test, but I am more stubborn than I am smart. So, I dig my heels in and make sure that I am all set up. Then the kicker. . .
I receive my second pre-authorization letter from the insurance company and it states “MRI, one breast”. I stare at it incredulously and think, so… do I have to pick a favorite boob? Are they telling me that I can only have one MRI on one boob? How do I decide? Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo – better luck next year lefty??? I go back to the phone, in my cube, and call the breast center. The coordinator on the other line, says that she will check into it and call me back. . . at work. I’m so fed up at this point that I cannot do anything more than laugh, like Tom Hanks in The Money Pit.
On the day of the test, I go unwillingly to breast center and check in. I’m then lead back to a room to disrobe and finally lead into the MRI chamber. The machine is giant and it looks like some sort contraption discarded by NASA. I have to mount the table and put my face in one hole and each boob in its own hole. It reminded me of those silly character picture boards that you can place your head in for a themed picture. The technician provides earplugs and then puts headphone on me before I am sucked into the bowls of the machine. To my shagrin the headphones are playing Christmas carols. Really? I can’t move, I have my boobs in holes, and I am now tortured by renditions of “Frosty the Snow Man” and “Santa Baby”. This. . . is . . . hell.