Stepping Out of Dark Shadows: A Diagnosis by Roberta McReynolds

Stepping Out of Dark Shadows: A Diagnosis

I end up sharing my news with five of my class members before the evening is over. I have been humbled by their own stories over the years and realize how blessed I am to already have such a strong support group in place. One of them tells me that she works with the American Cancer Society as a mentor for women with breast cancer, helping to answer their questions and assisting them through their experience. I go home with her phone number in my purse and feel like I’ve been tossed a life-preserver in the middle of a stormy sea.

I’ve found renewed strength and think about what lies ahead. I’d rather have a double-mastectomy than go through life with a uni-boob, especially considering as large as I am endowed and my family history (mother, aunts, and great-aunts). Besides, being lopsided would probably cause me to walk in circles. I’ll need blouses that button down the front, because I may not be able to reach my arms up over my head to slip into any of my pullover knit top wardrobe. A shorter hair-cut would make it easier to cope with my naturally curly hair post-surgery and I know just the hair stylist for the job. Confronting these thoughts allows me to pretend I’m still in control and keeps me sane.

I told Mike that I can see advantages in having both breasts removed, providing I can convince the surgeon to give me a two-for-the-price-of-one deal. I’ll have less back and neck strain, fewer headaches, it will be easier to exercise without bouncing hard enough to smack myself in the chin, and I’m bound to feel much cooler in the summer. Sharpen that scalpel; I am ready.

Mike and I contemplate how fortunate we are to have so many loving people who will help us through this. There is an extra challenge, because Mike’s eyesight has deteriorated and we’ll need rides to the hospital for surgery and treatment, even shopping trips until I am able to drive again. Without a doubt there will be a long line of supporters waving their hands in the air, shouting, "Pick me! Pick me!"

Friday finally arrives and back at the hospital I wait my turn. This time I’ve been given a gown large enough to wrap around me twice with fabric left over and arm holes I could fit both legs through.

The technician escorts me back for the mammogram and explains that the normal plates used for ‘squishing’ are larger than the ones she’ll be using today. The smaller ones will target the specific area and the discomfort can be more intense. She positions me and applies pressure in increments until I grit my teeth and signal that’s as much as I can tolerate. She takes three different angles (none of which require me to stand on my head).

I am given another enormous gown to put on opposite to the one I’m already wearing for increased modesty (one opening in the front, the other opening to the back) before being led down a hallway to the ultrasound department. I’ve got so much fabric draped around me I’m afraid I’ll trip and go sprawling, ending up with all of it tangled around my head while exposing the very areas I’m trying to keep covered.

The ultrasound tech mentions an ‘oil-filled cyst’ and I respond with an astonished, "What?" Thus far, no one had said a thing about what they were chasing around inside my breast. She explained it, but I was quite doubtful. I beat back the relief that was creeping onto the edges of my mind, so sure this couldn’t be true.

Ten minutes after the procedure was over a doctor walked in with the technician and confirmed it was nothing to be concerned about. The oil-filled cyst flattened out whenever pressure was applied and there was a lymph node next to it that had made the cyst appear denser. No hard masses. No tentacles. Nothing.

I questioned him about the long white line I had seen that appeared to pass through the cyst and he explained that it was ordinary fibrous breast tissue. The tech pulled up mammograms from the past three years and there it was. This year, for whatever reason, the angle had made cord-like tissue appear much more solid than it is actually. I really was fine. No problem.

"Come back in one year," the doctor told me. I felt like dancing down the hallway and through the parking lot (after getting rid of those ridiculous, flapping gowns, of course).

Mike and I hugged and cried with relief. We called our children on Saturday when we knew we would catch them all at home to share our joy and special reasons for being thankful.

I learned a lot about myself in the space of less than two weeks. I can face a new level of threat better than I thought I could. I have taken a closer look at our circle of family and friends, and their value in our lives. Most of these friends don’t even know what happened yet, but my confidence in our relationships had them right by my side already.

I’ve had years of experience with cancer on many levels. I’ve been involved with patients at hospices and hospitals, volunteering in various capacities. There have been fundraisers and special events. My role of caregiver for family has played out three times. Life can be fragile and fleeting. But this is the first time I opened the door and stepped into the dark shadows myself. Fortunately, this time I got to step back outside and close the door. That brief peek has given me, in a small way, a deeper appreciation and respect for what that journey is like for these courageous people. Truthfully, the entire episode has been a blessing in disguise.

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Stepping Out of Dark Shadows: A Diagnosis

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