“It’s probably cancer.”
“It’s probably cancer.” It was like a scene from a movie. The doctor was talking so fast, but at the same time, everything was moving in slow motion. I had gone in for a diagnostic mammogram after feeling a lump on my right breast sometime in May. This day was July 15, 2024. The day my whole world got turned upside down.
I was in generally good health, by most people’s standards. Although I had spent the last two or three years desperately trying to get to the bottom of why my joints always hurt and why I was so damn tired all the time, I was considered healthy (spoiler alert: I still don’t know why the fuck my joints hurt or what is causing my perpetual exhaustion). But cancer? I wasn’t expecting that.
”We need to get some more imaging with the mammogram.” My boobs had already been squished, squashed, lifted, flattened, nudged, and repositioned like play-doh for about 30 minutes. They needed me to do more of that? That can’t be good… The tech, Jo-Jo (such a sweet, kind woman who held all the space for me in that room; also reminded me of Bailey from Grey’s Anatomy), said that the radiologist was on site and had requested closer imaging of a certain area after reviewing my scans. Apparently, there were some little white specks showing up that looked like tiny grains of salt that he wanted a closer look at. Okay, fine, put my right boob into the torture chamber again.
Next was the ultrasound to look at the lump I had felt to see if it was solid or filled with fluid. No big deal. Just more people to show the lady lumps to. Good thing my modesty had already made its exit through all three of my birthing experiences. I can’t even tell you how many people at this point in my life have seen all my bits and bobs. I don’t even care anymore. I never really did, actually. If seeing my vag transform into a portal that brings life into this world bothers someone, that’s a them problem. Boobs are just skin, really. I mean, they do point at you from time to time, which some might consider quite rude; but again, them problem. Anyway, I’m not an expert on ultrasounds, but the lump looked pretty solid to me.
More waiting. I went out to this little triage area before and after each imagine step. They did their best to make it cozy and calming. There was an image of a lotus taped to the cabinet with some inspirational metaphorical writing about the lotus growing out of mud. There was a framed piece of art with a pink breast cancer ribbon and some flowers. The chair reclined and had a heating function which felt nice. A nurse offered me a warmed blanket which I welcomed. I scrolled through my phone to override the anxious thoughts trying to push their way through my brain.
”The radiologist would like to talk to you. Come with me.” I was brought into an office where the nurse navigator was sitting at her desk. She told me that the doctor would be in shortly and gathered some demographic information from me while we waited for maybe five or six minutes. Then he came in, passed in front of me, and sat down in the chair between me and the nurse’s desk.
I held my breath. I knew what was coming. He was a really fast talker. It was hard to catch everything he was saying. But what I did hear, loud and clear, was, “based on the imaging, it looks lIke you probably have cancer.” Time stopped and sped up at the same time. I was hearing words spilling out of the doctor’s mouth at lightning speed, yet I couldn’t quite make sense of the word being spoken before the next one came flying at me.
”Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” Um, yeah dude, I have to pick my kids up from summer camp in like 30 minutes, then balance playing with them, unpacking my house (having just moved 6 weeks prior), feeding them, feeding myself, et cetera, et cetera. “We want you to stay for a biopsy.” So I made arrangements for the neighbor to pick my kids up when she picked hers up. Cool. Back to my little triage spot.
The first one was called a core biopsy. I had to go load my boob back into the mammogram machine (yes, for the third time) and stay perfectly still while the radiologist numbed me and used a very long hollow needle to extract the tissue where those little salt specks were. Apparently, those were called microcalcifications. The nurse that was with me from this point on (who was an absolute saint) gave me an eye mask and a pink heart-shaped stress ball with a pink breast cancer ribbon on it. I didn’t think I would need the eye mask until I realized that my head was positioned in a way against the machine that I would be staring directly at this giant needle, so I changed my mind real quick. I was thankful that the numbing shot was in full effect and I felt nothing other than the kink in my neck that was making itself at home for at least the next two weeks from the way I was positioned with my head turned.
The other two biopsy locations were done under ultrasound. I got to lay down for this part, but not comfortably as I had to be positioned just so to ensure the best access. More shots of numbing medicine, although they had to give me more when they inserted the needle into the lump I had felt because I felt that shit like a lightning bolt shooting right through me. The third biopsy site was in one of my lymph nodes that “looked puffy.”
Six hours later, I was done with the appointment that had started at 9:30am. I left the Breast Cancer Center and drove to pick my kids up. I put a smile on my face and focused on being present with them with the understanding in my mind that I would allow myself to process and feel all the feelings later after they had gone to bed. I am as open and honest with my kids as possible, but I knew I needed more information before sharing anything with them.
And thus started the longest waiting game I have ever played. There was nothing I could Google because I didn’t have anything to look up yet. I had already looked up all the possibilities that a lump in the breast could be when I found it. I tried looking up imaging results for cancerous lumps, but soon realized that was a fruitless effort. I knew that I was about to get a diagnosis that was going to upend my entire world and change my life forever. I had been on the phone with my brother the night before and he asked how I was feeling about the mammogram. I told him that I knew the lump was going to be something, but that I was going to be okay. Little did I know what an understatement that was.