I get squeamish when it is time for my mammogram appointment. I have to admit that I am one of those women who are not terribly proactive with recommended self breast exams. I know what that is all about: it is fear. Fear of finding something I would rather not know about or have to deal with. But how foolish is that? Not knowing wouldn't make something bad go away. I have a young family that depends on me for so much in their life. I owe it to them to be wiser. I also know that I am not the only woman around who feels and behaves as I do.
I alleviate my haunting guilt by telling myself that there is nothing in my family tree to cause apprehension or for that matter, to make me terribly diligent about the issue of breast cancer detection. But that is turning a blind eye to a maternal aunt who successfully fought breast cancer and that I really have no idea of what my maternal grandmother died of at the age of 42.
I finally follow my heart and make the appointment. When I do get to the clinic for the mammogram, I am told that my records from a couple of years ago are lost and I will need to redo paperwork. This detail gives me a renewed opportunity to resent the whole affair. But once again, I assuage my agitation by admitting to myself that I am in a premiere facility, something I should be grateful for.
I redo the initial paperwork and then have a few minutes of reading time. I pick up a coffee table style book and realize that it is a record of some women who have sat in this very same waiting room over the years. It is a photo essay of their struggles and victories after receiving a breast cancer diagnosis. It is not all sugar and spice. By far, most of the women's stories were ones of restored and continuing health but there were a sobering few whose stories had run their course before the book's publication. There is an authenticity to this book in its refusal to gloss over truth that makes me take stock.
Mammography is generally 85 to 90% accurate. Only 6 to 8% of women who have a screening mammogram get news of potential abnormalities that need further investigation. When I wipe off my underarm deodorant and don the pink vest the tech hands me in the changing room, little do I realize that today is the day I will fall among that 6 to 8%.
Two doctors visit me in the radiography room where I have been waiting for about twenty minutes following my digital imaging. The younger one is in an observing role when his senior tells me that from experience, there is 99.9% surety that the tiny spot they have detected is benign. When I say that is good enough for me, this gives the docs a momentary pause. "But we need to absolutely, positively rule out that remaining 0.1% possibility," I am told. They are right, of course, and I schedule the biopsy.
I play the "ignore game" as best I can for the next week, but apprehension keeps creeping up and grabbing me by the back of the neck. The day comes and I am being ushered to a dimly lit procedure room. I will sit semi-reclined for the biopsy, surrounded by monitors and ultrasound equipment. On a sterile tray just beyond my reach is an array of surgical instruments, including what I have come to call "the snatcher", the core biopsy needle.
The procedure is to be a minimally invasive breast biopsy. The special core biopsy needle will extract samples about 1/16 of an inch in diameter from the suspicious spot. I will be sent home with a discreet bandaid, perhaps a little soreness and definitely no scarring.
After a local anesthetic takes effect, the doctor begins to delve with the needle. It is surprising how circuitous the route is to her target and I find I do not get much comfort from watching the ultrasound screen that assists her efforts. I tilt my head back and see that there has been a small leak in the roof some time recently. Then I wonder what would happen if the fire alarm went off right now. I feel a minor tearing sensation as the needle grabs and extracts its sample. There isn't real pain but my teeth are set on edge.
They are done with me in about thirty minutes and I am told that I will hear from the clinic as soon as the pathology report gets in. I leave with the souvenir bandaid. In a matter of days, there is the awaited phone call and it is good news. That 0.1% chance was sussed out and found to be no cause for alarm. A good night's sleep is in order.
I am grateful for a clean bill of health but gratitude has a way of rapidly slipping through my fingers. I now am stunned by the enormous swath of blues and greens on my bruised breast. I wasn't warned about this but it does stand to reason. To avoid scaring myself over the next few days, I use the dark closet as my dressing room. In a fashion only too typical for me, I am once again choosing to not engage thoughts of the possibilities that I have just had a passing glance with.
But the possibility of breast cancer is not something I can afford to bury my head in the sand about. In the past two years, I have personally known and watched several women take on their own battle with the disease. I have had the privilege of standing by them, organizing casserole brigades, helping their kids with homework and sometimes driving a dead tired mom to chemo appointments. I have been blessed to see none overcome. They are all survivors because they did not hide from the possibilities of truth and I have much to learn from their candor. It is time for me to make another mammogram appointment.