Because John has been officially fired from his job, we will no longer have health insurance at the end of this month. Being as sick as frequently as I am, don't think this doesn't terrify me. I have done everything I can to fill every possible prescription as well as get contacts ordered for me and the girls for a year, as well as visiting the dentist one last time. Also, I decided to get a mammogram.
John ordered a mammogram for me when I first turned 40, but the requisition form sat in my pile of "important" papers back in our PA house for years. I figured after that much time, it had expired and I pitched it. Then, when we first moved here, he gave me another requisition, but I "lost" it. John has always made the joke that it's not going to look too good for the wife of an OB/Gyn to be diagnosed with breast cancer because she didn't have early detection....
So with only three weeks left on the insurance, John filled out yet another order for a mammogram for me, and I went in. Let's get real here. I have a professional "lump finder" in my OB/Gyn husband, and don't think he doesn't remind me regularly to do a self-breast exam...which I tell him to do for me because, let's face it, he's going to find something before I do. And there's never been anything. So on the day of my exam, I felt pretty good going in. In fact, I was in pretty good spirits, joking with everyone and just owning the fact that several people were going to be manhandling my very large breasts that day. It wasn't near as bad as I've heard through the years, and I left, feeling relieved that it was over.
Unfortunately, I was in the minority 15% of women who gets a call to come back for a repeat mammogram because the radiologist found "something".
The rug of life was pulled out from under me.
No joke. Just wait for some moment like that someday. Or, if I'm being truthful, I hope that no one I love will ever get that kind of news. It literally rocks your world in the worst of ways.
When I was called with the news, John overheard the call via Bluetooth in the car. He immediately called the hospital back to get the official report of the mammogram. There was a mass in my right breast, and there was calcification as well. On a scale of 0-4 (with 3 and 4 being breast cancer), I was a 0. And my mass was oval in size with breast cancer usually presenting as a sphere.
That night, he did another exam on me, and he couldn't even find the 5 millimeter mass which, if it was cancer, would be hard and palpable. He reassured me that it was nothing, and I wanted to believe him, but we've had a lot of moments over the past year where we believe things are going to work out, and they don't. I truly believed that this was going to be yet another test to break me down even further.
So, I tried to forget about it for the following week while I waited for my second appointment. However, there is something about the possibility of cancer that made me reevaluate my future. I mean, if it was cancer, I could die, and looking death in the face was a very sad and lonely thought for me.
You know what my first thought was? How many things I would miss. I would never see my two grandchildren grow up, and I would never see anymore grandchildren. I would never see my girls get married. And life would be over. No more playing games, or book clubs, or lunchtime phone calls with Ethan. No more trips, no serving a mission with John, and no one up in heaven to welcome me and to keep me company.
In the same way that I mentally rejected my ankle after I broke it, refusing to even touch it for months, I felt like my right breast was a traitor, denying me the rest of the life that I had always imagined. It didn't feel like it was even part of my body.
So I cleared my calendar today. I didn't want anything else to do, but go to my appointment. However, I guess I wanted my life to be a little bit more in order in case I did come home with bad news, so I did some laundry this morning, I loaded the dishwasher, I vacuumed the apartment, and I went grocery shopping. I then took a shower, talked to Ethan over lunch, and left for my appointment. I tried to be cute and positive by wearing a pink t-shirt in support of any breast cancer survivors in the world, but I felt nothing but scared and very solemn. I mean, I could be receiving news that would change the course of my life.
I had been told that more in-depth images would be taken of my right breast, and if they were inconclusive, they would then ultrasound the breast. For any of us normal people, those are a series of steps that seem to inch closer to the ultimate diagnosis of cancer. So as they took me back for the initial images, I hoped that the radiologist would look at them and let me go quickly. And while the initial mammogram wasn't so bad, these were incredibly painful which only added to the anxiety I was feeling. I went back out in the waiting room, and after only five minutes, I was led down a very long hallway to the ultrasound room.
The ultrasound tech asked me how I was doing, and all I could do was look at her with despair on my face. She knew what I was feeling, because she said, "You probably won't feel better until you have an answer."
Probably one of the hardest things for me in all of this comes as a result of being a survivor of sexual abuse. Moments where I need to have breast exams or pelvic exams are incredibly difficult for me because of the association I have with the sexual abuse I suffered as a child. Having people see and handle parts of me that have been used for very evil purposes is frightening and humiliating. So, the mammogram was hard, but it was nothing compared to what the ultrasound was going to be.
I had to lay on a table propped up on a pillow along my side with my breast exposed and raised up while a woman spent 45 minutes pushing the ultrasound probe as hard as she could into my breast. And of course there was ultrasound gel getting smushed all around my breast. And while I was gritting my teeth, and clenching my fists (one of which was raised above my head) and trying to hold back the tears, I tried to keep my knees bent to save my back, but she insisted that my legs lay flat which just left me in more pain. And from ever on, I will HATE country music, because she had a boom box playing the loudest, ugliest country music radio station throughout the entire 45 minutes. She didn't say one thing, but during this most humiliating experience, I had to listen to that ugliness. It was a nightmare.
There was no reassurance. No asking me if I was okay. Nothing. And when she was done, she took a small towel, covered my breast, and told me to lay there in case the doctor needed to do more scans. Just imagine what thoughts go through anyone's mind when THAT is said. Like, there's so much badness to see that one ultrasound tech can't capture it all on film.
I laid there for TWENTY MINUTES, alone, my breast exposed, listening to that horrid music, not allowed to move. When the doctor finally walked in, SHE (and let's remind everyone how much I HATE female doctors) looked at me laying there and rudely said, "You don't need to lay down. I'm not going to scan you," and she just watched me try and sit up by myself with my weak back, trying to cover myself with that tiny towel. She didn't introduce herself, she didn't shake my hand, and she didn't help me up.
She then proceeded to tell me that I had a cyst--oh correction, I have "several" cysts--but only one that is concerning. It's filled with debris. I'll need to get a mammogram every six months for the next two years, and if nothing changes, I will then be classified as "normal" again. For the time being, we're going to call it "benign".
Did I understand?
That was it. For all the misery, and tears, and suffering, she had delivered the news with the coolness of the scalpel that could possibly excise the mass.
I looked at her and said, "Well, I don't really have any choice," and by that I meant, did it matter that I understand? It is what it is, and there's nothing I can do but wait. However, she wasn't about to show me any warmth, so she got a very nasty look on her face (there had been no smiling of any sort so far anyways), and impatiently said, "Well, we can biopsy it. Do you want that?"
No, Doctor Mean, I don't. I would just like a little bit of sympathy and kindness from you in what has been one of the worst days of my life.
I was shown back to the dressing room where I slipped my clothes back on, and I walked out of the building alone, shielding my crying eyes with my sunglasses. I got back in Greenie, and just took five minutes and cried my eyes out. And then I cried all the way home. And when I got home, I just sat on the couch in shock and pain. The whole experience had been unbelievable, and even eight hours later, I'm still trying to process it.
I will say this for the record: I know my husband. I frequently criticize him for how he acts. However, he would NEVER leave a woman feeling that way. He would never not introduce himself, or smile, or not help her up, or leave her feeling like a piece of trash, or let her walk out of his office crying from fear and humiliation. NEVER.
Hopefully, in the next couple of days, relief will set in, and I'll feel like I can move on with life. I guess if I'm a cat, I used one of my nine lives today, but I'd like to think that I have eight more waiting for me. I'm not at all ready for the adventure to end.
John ordered a mammogram for me when I first turned 40, but the requisition form sat in my pile of "important" papers back in our PA house for years. I figured after that much time, it had expired and I pitched it. Then, when we first moved here, he gave me another requisition, but I "lost" it. John has always made the joke that it's not going to look too good for the wife of an OB/Gyn to be diagnosed with breast cancer because she didn't have early detection....
So with only three weeks left on the insurance, John filled out yet another order for a mammogram for me, and I went in. Let's get real here. I have a professional "lump finder" in my OB/Gyn husband, and don't think he doesn't remind me regularly to do a self-breast exam...which I tell him to do for me because, let's face it, he's going to find something before I do. And there's never been anything. So on the day of my exam, I felt pretty good going in. In fact, I was in pretty good spirits, joking with everyone and just owning the fact that several people were going to be manhandling my very large breasts that day. It wasn't near as bad as I've heard through the years, and I left, feeling relieved that it was over.
Unfortunately, I was in the minority 15% of women who gets a call to come back for a repeat mammogram because the radiologist found "something".
The rug of life was pulled out from under me.
No joke. Just wait for some moment like that someday. Or, if I'm being truthful, I hope that no one I love will ever get that kind of news. It literally rocks your world in the worst of ways.
When I was called with the news, John overheard the call via Bluetooth in the car. He immediately called the hospital back to get the official report of the mammogram. There was a mass in my right breast, and there was calcification as well. On a scale of 0-4 (with 3 and 4 being breast cancer), I was a 0. And my mass was oval in size with breast cancer usually presenting as a sphere.
That night, he did another exam on me, and he couldn't even find the 5 millimeter mass which, if it was cancer, would be hard and palpable. He reassured me that it was nothing, and I wanted to believe him, but we've had a lot of moments over the past year where we believe things are going to work out, and they don't. I truly believed that this was going to be yet another test to break me down even further.
So, I tried to forget about it for the following week while I waited for my second appointment. However, there is something about the possibility of cancer that made me reevaluate my future. I mean, if it was cancer, I could die, and looking death in the face was a very sad and lonely thought for me.
You know what my first thought was? How many things I would miss. I would never see my two grandchildren grow up, and I would never see anymore grandchildren. I would never see my girls get married. And life would be over. No more playing games, or book clubs, or lunchtime phone calls with Ethan. No more trips, no serving a mission with John, and no one up in heaven to welcome me and to keep me company.
In the same way that I mentally rejected my ankle after I broke it, refusing to even touch it for months, I felt like my right breast was a traitor, denying me the rest of the life that I had always imagined. It didn't feel like it was even part of my body.
So I cleared my calendar today. I didn't want anything else to do, but go to my appointment. However, I guess I wanted my life to be a little bit more in order in case I did come home with bad news, so I did some laundry this morning, I loaded the dishwasher, I vacuumed the apartment, and I went grocery shopping. I then took a shower, talked to Ethan over lunch, and left for my appointment. I tried to be cute and positive by wearing a pink t-shirt in support of any breast cancer survivors in the world, but I felt nothing but scared and very solemn. I mean, I could be receiving news that would change the course of my life.
I had been told that more in-depth images would be taken of my right breast, and if they were inconclusive, they would then ultrasound the breast. For any of us normal people, those are a series of steps that seem to inch closer to the ultimate diagnosis of cancer. So as they took me back for the initial images, I hoped that the radiologist would look at them and let me go quickly. And while the initial mammogram wasn't so bad, these were incredibly painful which only added to the anxiety I was feeling. I went back out in the waiting room, and after only five minutes, I was led down a very long hallway to the ultrasound room.
The ultrasound tech asked me how I was doing, and all I could do was look at her with despair on my face. She knew what I was feeling, because she said, "You probably won't feel better until you have an answer."
Probably one of the hardest things for me in all of this comes as a result of being a survivor of sexual abuse. Moments where I need to have breast exams or pelvic exams are incredibly difficult for me because of the association I have with the sexual abuse I suffered as a child. Having people see and handle parts of me that have been used for very evil purposes is frightening and humiliating. So, the mammogram was hard, but it was nothing compared to what the ultrasound was going to be.
I had to lay on a table propped up on a pillow along my side with my breast exposed and raised up while a woman spent 45 minutes pushing the ultrasound probe as hard as she could into my breast. And of course there was ultrasound gel getting smushed all around my breast. And while I was gritting my teeth, and clenching my fists (one of which was raised above my head) and trying to hold back the tears, I tried to keep my knees bent to save my back, but she insisted that my legs lay flat which just left me in more pain. And from ever on, I will HATE country music, because she had a boom box playing the loudest, ugliest country music radio station throughout the entire 45 minutes. She didn't say one thing, but during this most humiliating experience, I had to listen to that ugliness. It was a nightmare.
There was no reassurance. No asking me if I was okay. Nothing. And when she was done, she took a small towel, covered my breast, and told me to lay there in case the doctor needed to do more scans. Just imagine what thoughts go through anyone's mind when THAT is said. Like, there's so much badness to see that one ultrasound tech can't capture it all on film.
I laid there for TWENTY MINUTES, alone, my breast exposed, listening to that horrid music, not allowed to move. When the doctor finally walked in, SHE (and let's remind everyone how much I HATE female doctors) looked at me laying there and rudely said, "You don't need to lay down. I'm not going to scan you," and she just watched me try and sit up by myself with my weak back, trying to cover myself with that tiny towel. She didn't introduce herself, she didn't shake my hand, and she didn't help me up.
She then proceeded to tell me that I had a cyst--oh correction, I have "several" cysts--but only one that is concerning. It's filled with debris. I'll need to get a mammogram every six months for the next two years, and if nothing changes, I will then be classified as "normal" again. For the time being, we're going to call it "benign".
Did I understand?
That was it. For all the misery, and tears, and suffering, she had delivered the news with the coolness of the scalpel that could possibly excise the mass.
I looked at her and said, "Well, I don't really have any choice," and by that I meant, did it matter that I understand? It is what it is, and there's nothing I can do but wait. However, she wasn't about to show me any warmth, so she got a very nasty look on her face (there had been no smiling of any sort so far anyways), and impatiently said, "Well, we can biopsy it. Do you want that?"
No, Doctor Mean, I don't. I would just like a little bit of sympathy and kindness from you in what has been one of the worst days of my life.
I was shown back to the dressing room where I slipped my clothes back on, and I walked out of the building alone, shielding my crying eyes with my sunglasses. I got back in Greenie, and just took five minutes and cried my eyes out. And then I cried all the way home. And when I got home, I just sat on the couch in shock and pain. The whole experience had been unbelievable, and even eight hours later, I'm still trying to process it.
I will say this for the record: I know my husband. I frequently criticize him for how he acts. However, he would NEVER leave a woman feeling that way. He would never not introduce himself, or smile, or not help her up, or leave her feeling like a piece of trash, or let her walk out of his office crying from fear and humiliation. NEVER.
Hopefully, in the next couple of days, relief will set in, and I'll feel like I can move on with life. I guess if I'm a cat, I used one of my nine lives today, but I'd like to think that I have eight more waiting for me. I'm not at all ready for the adventure to end.
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