Stepping Out of Dark Shadows: A Diagnosis
The calendar hanging on the side of our refrigerator marks time in personal ways beyond the obvious days, weeks and months. The happier notes count off birthdays and wedding anniversaries; my favorite one is that my husband has remained cancer-free for 13 years (and counting). There are also notations that it’s time to change the oil in the car, appointments every six months with the dental hygienist, clean the filters in the aquarium, and annual physicals. That last item signals it’s time for my mammogram, too.
When I received my physical this year, my doctor hesitated during the breast exam, and then moved his hands back and forth between the right and left orbs comparing them, "I’m not sure if I’m just not remembering what your breast tissue feels like, or if I’m noticing a difference. Your mammogram will tell us if anything is there." I file the exchange between us away in the back of my mind. No problem.
I didn’t take it too seriously; I haven’t noticed anything during my own monthly checks. Let’s just say, without going into the realm of sharing too much information, that my breasts are changing with age. No problem.I didn’t even mention it to my husband until we were on our way to the hospital for my mammogram. A small voice in my head urged me to share this now, just in case. I didn’t have any real concerns. Okay ... maybe just the tiniest bit.
So it happened that exactly one year and one day after my last mammogram I dutifully sat in a waiting area clutching the front of a hospital gown, three-sizes too small, while I waited for my name to be called. There was a confused look on the technician’s face when she arrived as she puzzled over the papers on her clipboard, "Robert?"
I carefully let go of my gaping gown with one hand and waved, "That’s me. My name is so long it cuts off the last letter."
"Oh!" She giggled a bit and then asked me to follow her into the room where the ‘torture device’ is located.
Drop the gown off one shoulder. Clamp-squeeze-release. Reposition. Clamp-squeeze-release. Then repeat with the other side.
The tech stepped over to her computer, pulling up the digital images to make sure everything was in focus. I have made it my practice to always take a peek; they are, after all, pictures of my equipment ... so to speak.
I stood there in stunned silence. Even without my glasses and standing back several feet away from the monitor I could see it wasn’t ‘normal’. I felt oddly detached; those can’t be my breasts. Problem.
"You’ll get a notice in the mail in about two or three weeks with the results," the technician quoted from the standard speech she was taught back in Mammography 101. She paused a moment, her eyes glued to the same image I was staring at, then quietly added, "Unless somebody calls you sooner."
The voice in my head whispered, "And they will." You don’t need a medical degree for this one. The thing that worried me the most wasn’t that there was something there, but that it looked so large. How could anything grow that fast in just a year (and one day) unless it was very aggressive and nasty? It looked like carcinoma of the milk ducts; the same type that took my mother’s life.
I got dressed and headed to the bathroom off the main hall. I wash my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. I still look the same on the outside as I did 30 minutes ago, except maybe for my eyes. They know something.
As I step out of the bathroom I run into a young mother I met while waiting my turn. She had a suspicious lump and was getting an ultrasound and mammogram to determine what it might be. "Everything turned out good! Thank you so much for talking to me and calming my nerves," she tells me. We celebrate her joy with an embrace. She’s fine. I’m not fine.
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