I find it by accident, not during a routine check, not that I am very vigilant about those checks, even though at my age it is prudent. Instead I am changing into sleepwear when I notice a raised area. Lifting and checking, sure enough, there is definitely something there that hadn’t been there recently (I may not do the pharmacy-poster check, but I am no stranger to my body).
My husband confirms it is an odd marble-sized firm lump. I call my doctor the next day and the earliest appointment slot is the following Friday. Waiting and worrying, a week later I see the doctor. He also confirms it’s a lump. He orders some tests which the office schedules for the following week.
I try not to think about it but between the visits two friends-of-friends my age die of cancer. Everywhere I turn, people seem to be uttering that word. It’s not just me — hubby hears it everywhere too. I am careful not to say too much to too many people because, after all, it could be nothing.
The morning I am to go in for the tests, I accidentally tell Kiddo. She bursts into tears and throws her arms around me tight. I take a deep breath and tell myself it’s a teachable moment, I explain what I can. “It’s probably nothing, and even if it is something, it’s very small — under two centimetres, which puts it in the early detection stage, much easier to deal with — but it’s probably just a cyst or maybe a blocked duct.”
Looking in my eyes she chooses to believe me. We continue to the bus. A while later she asks, what happens next? I explain what I know about the tests that my doctor had requested: mammogram, ultrasound, and possible biopsy. “And then what?”
“Then I have no clue, really. This is new to me too.”
And it is new. New because no one in our close family has gone through cancer or even a cancer scare — except my Dad sort of did but only because the doctor told him he needed to see an oncologist when he really meant opthamologist — that was a big difference and a week of needless worrying. Those in wider circles were much further into dealing with things by the time we got word. This first part, the potential, was new.
I get to the hospital early, following the pink line along the wall from Medical Imaging to Breast Imaging. I am given a gown and a red plastic shopping basket, “for your personal belongings” and directed to change and wait. So I wait, thankful I brought a book.
At last I get the mammogram. The tech asks me to show her where the lump is, “Oh, yes, I can feel that, too.” She marks it with an X then puts a sticker over top so she can centre the camera. Two awkward poses in slightly different positions compress my flesh into a pancake. It’s the second mammogram I’ve had and I can’t help but be thankful that for once the size of my breasts is an advantage.
I am returned to the waiting room and a few minutes later ushered into the ultrasound room on the other side of the hall. Again, the tech asks me to indicate where the lump is. I do, and she directs me to a position, supported by plastic covered foam wedges and bolsters then tips the bed so gravity also assists. I watch as the murky deep-ocean blue-grey waves of feedback appear on the screen.
I pay close attention as she freezes then measures the size of what looks like a little black hole inside my breast tissue. I am happy that the largest dimension in any direction on any of the four photos is 1.1 cm. She tells me she is going to give the images to the doctor and will return. In the meantime, she covers what is exposed and I just keep looking at the four frozen images on the screen. I still don’t know if it is good or bad. I try to remember what I have read about tumors — are they round or asymmetrical? I wonder if I have ever looked at any medical articles that might have had images. I keep telling myself it’s nothing but a little part of me is just not sure. I think about the movie Pink Ribbons. I think, “Fuck cancer.”
The tech returns, the doctor behind her. He is a few years older than me and unlike the techs is not dressed in any kind of scrubs. He is smiling, reassuringly, “Well, what you have here looks incredibly benign.”
A champagne cork pops in the back of my head but I want to hear the rest.
He tells me it looked “like a textbook cyst” on the mammogram but the ultrasound is not as compelling. He tells me he can either do the biopsy (except he simplifies it even further, avoiding the medical terminology) right then and there, or I can wait six months and be re-assessed. I tell him I’m good with the needle as I wonder, who opts for the wait? He continually prompts me to ask if I have any questions. I ask when the results will be clear. He tells me that, basically, if the needle is able to withdraw fluid it’s a cyst; if the filling is too thick to be withdrawn, he will use a different method. Either way, the lab will assess what is withdrawn and forward the results to my doctor in a week.
He prepares the area then readies the needle and uses the ultrasound to find it again. I watch in amazement as he pierces the thick outer edge and withdraws a small amount of fluid. On screen, I can see the size of the black hole actually shrink. I remark how great it is to be living in the future.
He shows me the gunk he has withdrawn before putting it into a container destined for the lab. They clean up the equipment and then help me to clean up and I am able to gather my basket, change, and leave. A little over two weeks plus ninety minutes, mostly wait time, but I have my answer. Benign.
Even before I change, I text hubby to let him know. Then I change, then text or email the other people who knew. Kiddo replies excitedly with an emoticon grin. I phone my mother who is also relieved. I find some food and coffee as I realize how much tension has been living in my body.
The takeaway? Aside from being incredibly thankful — that this was all covered by BC Medical; that we live in a time and place where these tests exist and are accessible; and that there was unquestioning support from everyone around me who I chose to tell — I of course am left with the feeling that life is too short and too fragile to be left to chance. Happily, most of my priorities are already in the right order, but there may be one or two changes to be made.
Photo Credit
Photo by Cheryl DeWofle – All Rights Reserved
First published at Flotsam and Jetsam
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