Something
There was a tumor in my left breast. Nobody had actually said the word, bur the nurse on the phone said there was a something, possibly a dense area of tissue, and I needed to schedule a follow-up mammogram.
It had to be a tumor, right? No matter how much palpation I did on my own, I couldn't feel anything, but the mammogram showed that something was there. It wasn't personal error either, my gynecologist had performed a breast exam just one month before and she didn't feel anything. That had to be a good sign. My first mammogram was normal, this one wasn't. I had even let the nurse use extra pressure to be sure there wasn't anything there! But there was something there. I tried to listen to my heart and hope it was just a cyst. Lots of women get cysts in their breasts that come and go, maybe I was one of those women.
Getting an appointment for a follow up mammogram was a breeze. I guess now I was a priority patient, not just some young woman with a bad gene. Just a couple of days later, I was back at the hospital's High Risk Breast Center. I got the incubated robe and went into the small room with the lockers and changed. I walked into the mammogram room and braced myself for the cold. Winter is Coming. This time the nurse was in just a couple of minutes after me. No one needed to get radiologist permission today, my tests were no longer preventative.
A normal mammogram takes images of your breasts by compressing them between two large pieces of plastic. When there is a suspicious area, you get to undergo a more targeted mammogram.The machine is the same, but instead of compressing the entire breast, they use smaller pieces of plastic to pinch just the suspicious area. A normal mammogram is uncomfortable. This one was actually a little painful. I chanted my current affirmation to myself over and over again. I do not know pain, I do not know fear. I do not know pain, I do not know fear. I hoped that if I said it enough, it would be true, and the tumor would be just as scared of me as the men of Middle Earth are of Uruk-Hai.
The mammogram went by quickly, and when it was done I sat in a private room with another woman in a robe. We didn't talk, didn't even make eye contact. She flipped through a magazine and I stared out the window. Likely, both of us were wishing we weren't here. This was the room you waited in when there was something wrong. The nurse had gone to show the images to a radiologist, who would determine if I did, in fact, have something wrong. They confirmed there was 'something', and I was ushered into a room for an immediate breast ultrasound.
Breast ultrasounds are pretty straight forward. You lie back on a table with your breast hanging out and the associated arm dangling over your head. The nurse uses some gel and a probe and starts to scan the entire area. When the whole process started, I thought "Hey, this isn't too bad." About 5 to 10 minutes in, my arm started to tingle, followed by a numbing sensation, followed by a painful tingle. I still had 5 more minutes past the point when I was sure my arm was going to fall off.
I do not know pain, I do not know fear. Dammit this effing hurts. How much longer? I do not know pain, I do not know fear. Nurse, you've scanned the same area a million times. I think you got the picture. I do not know pain, I do not know fear. She said fifteen minutes and it has been a million years since she started. Pain. Fear.
Over 20 unpleasant minutes later, the nurse left to talk to the radiologist. I was alone again, waiting again. You'll hear me bring this up a million times while I recount this process- I hate waiting. The waiting is the worst part. Waiting for an appointment, waiting for test results, waiting for a diagnosis, waiting for surgery, waiting to get better. So. Much. Waiting.
The nurse came back with a doctor I had never met before. She introduced herself, shook my hand, sat on a stool and said what I knew she would say. "There is a tumor in your left breast." I thought I could prepare myself, because I assumed that was what I was going to hear. Even when you know something terrible is going to happen, some part of your subconscious still hopes for a last minute miracle.
I was handed a piece of paper explaining what a biopsy was while the doctor started to explain that a biopsy would be the next step. I stopped her. I am a veterinarian, I have performed biopsies, I know what they are and I needed to be done with this appointment so I could leave and process this information. I did ask her if the tumor could actually be a cyst. She said that it could be a cyst, but it didn't look like a typical cyst, and with my history...well, let's just get the biopsy scheduled. So I made another appointment, the earliest I could get in was about a week later. I couldn't do anything in the meantime other than my favorite thing... waiting.
It had to be a tumor, right? No matter how much palpation I did on my own, I couldn't feel anything, but the mammogram showed that something was there. It wasn't personal error either, my gynecologist had performed a breast exam just one month before and she didn't feel anything. That had to be a good sign. My first mammogram was normal, this one wasn't. I had even let the nurse use extra pressure to be sure there wasn't anything there! But there was something there. I tried to listen to my heart and hope it was just a cyst. Lots of women get cysts in their breasts that come and go, maybe I was one of those women.
Getting an appointment for a follow up mammogram was a breeze. I guess now I was a priority patient, not just some young woman with a bad gene. Just a couple of days later, I was back at the hospital's High Risk Breast Center. I got the incubated robe and went into the small room with the lockers and changed. I walked into the mammogram room and braced myself for the cold. Winter is Coming. This time the nurse was in just a couple of minutes after me. No one needed to get radiologist permission today, my tests were no longer preventative.
A normal mammogram takes images of your breasts by compressing them between two large pieces of plastic. When there is a suspicious area, you get to undergo a more targeted mammogram.The machine is the same, but instead of compressing the entire breast, they use smaller pieces of plastic to pinch just the suspicious area. A normal mammogram is uncomfortable. This one was actually a little painful. I chanted my current affirmation to myself over and over again. I do not know pain, I do not know fear. I do not know pain, I do not know fear. I hoped that if I said it enough, it would be true, and the tumor would be just as scared of me as the men of Middle Earth are of Uruk-Hai.
The mammogram went by quickly, and when it was done I sat in a private room with another woman in a robe. We didn't talk, didn't even make eye contact. She flipped through a magazine and I stared out the window. Likely, both of us were wishing we weren't here. This was the room you waited in when there was something wrong. The nurse had gone to show the images to a radiologist, who would determine if I did, in fact, have something wrong. They confirmed there was 'something', and I was ushered into a room for an immediate breast ultrasound.
Breast ultrasounds are pretty straight forward. You lie back on a table with your breast hanging out and the associated arm dangling over your head. The nurse uses some gel and a probe and starts to scan the entire area. When the whole process started, I thought "Hey, this isn't too bad." About 5 to 10 minutes in, my arm started to tingle, followed by a numbing sensation, followed by a painful tingle. I still had 5 more minutes past the point when I was sure my arm was going to fall off.
I do not know pain, I do not know fear. Dammit this effing hurts. How much longer? I do not know pain, I do not know fear. Nurse, you've scanned the same area a million times. I think you got the picture. I do not know pain, I do not know fear. She said fifteen minutes and it has been a million years since she started. Pain. Fear.
Over 20 unpleasant minutes later, the nurse left to talk to the radiologist. I was alone again, waiting again. You'll hear me bring this up a million times while I recount this process- I hate waiting. The waiting is the worst part. Waiting for an appointment, waiting for test results, waiting for a diagnosis, waiting for surgery, waiting to get better. So. Much. Waiting.
The nurse came back with a doctor I had never met before. She introduced herself, shook my hand, sat on a stool and said what I knew she would say. "There is a tumor in your left breast." I thought I could prepare myself, because I assumed that was what I was going to hear. Even when you know something terrible is going to happen, some part of your subconscious still hopes for a last minute miracle.
I was handed a piece of paper explaining what a biopsy was while the doctor started to explain that a biopsy would be the next step. I stopped her. I am a veterinarian, I have performed biopsies, I know what they are and I needed to be done with this appointment so I could leave and process this information. I did ask her if the tumor could actually be a cyst. She said that it could be a cyst, but it didn't look like a typical cyst, and with my history...well, let's just get the biopsy scheduled. So I made another appointment, the earliest I could get in was about a week later. I couldn't do anything in the meantime other than my favorite thing... waiting.
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