I sat in the chair alone with my gown on next to this crazy machine. Looking out the window through a crack in the closed blinds, I wondered about the other women who have sat in this chair. What did their journey lead to? I knew as I sat there- odds were that I would leave with no further steps in the process of testing for breast cancer. That I would get to go home and hug my baby, yet feel a little more compassion for the pink ribbons. Maybe even participate in a walk or race for the fight against cancer. I would at least think about it more than I did before this mammogram visit.
The technician comes back and needs a few more images scanned. I swallow the lump in my throat and clear away my grateful feelings and replace them with a little shred of concern. Just a tiny shred.
Then the Doctor wants to see me in another room for another exam. This was not what I was told would happen. This is not what was planned. Concern level is elevated to orange.
He begins speaking words I don’t comprehend, yet in a soft and non-concerning tone. The process isn’t done. I am not going home with a clear head. He tells me not to lose sleep over it, that it’s just some little calcifications on a regular cyst that are worth checking out at my youthful age. It is rare they are cancerous, but he has seen it happen before.
Two weeks go by before I have more details and a thorough conversation with another doctor. Who’s on first?! What’s on second?! I will spare writing the awful and agonizing feelings, tears shed (and held back) while thinking of potential plans to arrange for my son’s life in the event there is a day I will not be in it while he is still young.
I have two days to mentally prepare for a procedure I know very little about. Stereotactic Core Biopsy. I read horror stories online of people traumatized by this and emotionally scarred for days (from benign and cancer survivors alike).
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Hooray for my visiting teacher! I have someone to watch Zane.
Not hooray for the new job, Mike is away on business.
Hooray for my drums! I get to play with the bassist from the band I auditioned for the night before the procedure. This is a much needed outlet.
Hooray for my Home Teacher/ Friend! I get a priesthood blessing.
Hooray for Aunt Sharon who spoke with me about her experience with the same process and offered comforting words I needed to hear.
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The morning of the procedure I wanted to puke, but somehow felt overwhelmingly grateful for technology allowing a less invasive method (i.e. it’s not surgery!).
I had a sense of calm that whatever the plan is for my life, I don’t have a lot of control related to this type of health check. The only control I have is to be calm and trick my mind into getting through this procedure and taking care of my son. I force myself to box up all my scary thoughts and set them aside. Not to be opened unless Monday’s call has unwanted news.
As for the procedure, it did not hurt nearly as much as I expected. The initial ‘bee’ sting I read about was accurate, only it was like the bee took a nose-dive into the inside of my body and kept going. That was the only time I hurt enough to verbally express it with AHHHHH and I squeezed the hell out of the ball in my hand. That was the numbing agent.
When they were finished, I wanted to jump up on the table, bloody and topless, and blow into a trumpet:
DO DODODOOOOOOOOOOO! IT DIDN’T HURT THAT MUCH!!!
The aftermath is worse than the procedure. The hole where the incision was made is small, yet larger than I expected. It’s like I got shot with a bee-bee gun at close range, only it went completely through. The hour before I can take another dose of Tylenol isn’t so fun.
So I wait to hear about what’s next in my plan, this plan that exists for me. I have to trust that the One who created it knows what He’s doing. That could be a pretty tall test for me.
Or a completely awesome celebration of life.
