The Breast Stuff

As I mentioned earlier, besides the business of having to have a hip replaced (once in a while this really hits me), I had some issues following a mammogram.

I'm writing this partly for the women who have dubious mammograms and have to go for additional tests, so that they can see there can be a good outcome.  I'm also writing it simply so that women who have to have additional tests have some clear idea, in plain language, of what happens to them.  I googled a lot, and all I got was a whole lot of statistics.

I had not had a mammogram for probably 10 years.  My self-exam schedule was spotty at best.  I'm not sure why.  I'm not sure if it was denial, indifference, stupidity, or just what.  It was dumb, in any case, since my mother died of breast cancer.  Following my visit to the doctor, in early April, I got myself to the imaging center as well.

The initial mammogram was fine.  The technician made it as easy for me as possible.  I was able to maintain my dignity while the two of us hefted my breasts around.  Was it painful?  I think not as the last one was.  There were, though, a few moments where yes, it was quite painful, and I might have bitten my lip.  As I left, she said that the letters had just gone out that morning, but if they needed additional images they would call me.

So when I got the phone call, I knew that it was not exactly good news.  I started googling at that point, about what it could be, what happened from there and what the chances were.  In the end, though, you can google till the cows come home and you're not that much further than you were, because what you're reading about is all those other people and this is you and no one can say what will happen to you until it happens.  I read a lot about calcifications and honestly couldn't figure out if they were good or bad.  (Indifferent, as it seems to have turned out, and useful as markers, in the vast wilderness that is a breast).

I told someone very close to me, who assured me, IMMEDIATELY, that they always, always, always err on the side of caution and that I shouldn't worry.  I'm not sure how much that helped me, but the sentiment was nice.  I did not, however, tell my grown daughters.  I most emphatically did NOT want them to worry.  Let them worry if there was something to worry about. 

I went back for the additional images.  The mood was a tad more somber.  They show you the  images.  What I had was two cloudy bunches, more or less, that no matter how much they squished, they couldn't quite make go away.  The doctor who reads the mammograms came out to tell me that, more or less, and that I was going to have to see someone more specialized.

The GP's office sent me to the office of a woman doctor.  I googled her, of course, and was somewhat consoled.  She specialized in breast-conserving surgery and it looked like the treatment of choice was targeted radiation, that only took a week.  That made me feel better.  As it turns out, I never saw her, I only saw her PA.  She, again, was very nice to me.  She used her little netbook style ultrasound to try to find the masses.  I think my rather large breast defeated it.  But I was most thoroughly palpated (felt up if it's not a medical professional doing it) and I was most thoroughly ultrasounded, with the result of exactly nothing.  "I can't tell one way or the other," she told me earnestly.  "I can't send you away feeling warm and fuzzy and I can't tell you anything to help you get your head around an eventual diagnosis."  So I left there sort of up in the air, with an appointment for the premiere place in the area, for a mammogram, real ultrasound and possible biopsy.

I won't lie.  I spent some time in panic.  I couldn't look at a shampoo or hair product commercial, for wondering if I was going to lose mine.  Every time I put on makeup, I'd contemplate my eyelashes--I am inordinately vain about my long (still long at 56!) eyelashes--and wonder if I was going to lose them, and then go through the hierarchy of awfulness.  Hair--awful, of course, because, well, it's HAIR, but then again, camoflageable, sort of.  And if all else failed, I saw some pictures of women who had lost their hair to chemo and had mehndi done on their heads.  I sort of liked that route. But eyelashes?  Really?  Oh, no.  OH, no.  And seeing the above person, close to me?  Like that?  Probably not something I could do.  And so I'd have all these thoughts, in way less time than it took for me to type them, and then I would put them out of my mind, because what good does stewing do?  None.  But sometimes I would have all those thoughts, and I would cry some very bitter little tears.  Not for long, but I would cry.  And think of my mother, too, whose cancer was diagnosed much too late to cure, but who went through chemo and who eventually died because it attacked her liver.  And I didn't want to die like that, so I supposed that not having eyelashes was indeed a fair enough trade.  And then I would just stop thinking about it for an hour or so.

All of this happened fairly quickly, so there was not a lot of time between appointments.  I went to the Women's Health Center, where they were also very nice---of course they were, because they could see I was there because I had suspicious mammograms. They weren't going to be not nice to me.

I was shown to a waiting area and told to put my belongings in a locker and wear the key, and to strip to the waist and wear the kimono thing.  So I did. They got me very quickly.  I didn't like this part mostly because I don't like not wearing a bra.  I find it hard to feel dignified with them flapping below my chin.  But I did my best.

I had more, even more targeted mammograms.  Smaller plates, to isolate the areas.  It hurt.  They finally arrived at two areas and then sent me down to the ultrasound room.  The technician there had me lie down, and there was more sliding of the roller on my breast--which sounds like not a lot, but is quite a lot.  After a while, she went off and got the doctor, a young woman, who also ultrasounded for a while and finally said she wanted to do a stereotactic needle biopsy.

In this procedure, you lie down on a table with a hole in it and the breast in question hangs through.  More mammogram images are obtained and they find the places to do a needle biopsy.  Oh, boy.

So I was all lined up to do this.  The young woman doctor was talking to me and then we got to medications.  Remember, I have a very bad hip--and I was, at that point, taking ibuprofen like it was candy and had recently been started on Meloxicam.  I fessed up.  It's idiotic not to.

I couldn't have it that day.  I had to let all the NSAIDs get out of my system.  They increase bleeding risk.  As she said, I wasn't going to bleed out from a needle biopsy, but there was a chance of a hemotoma, or infection.  So I was to go home, take only Tramadol for the pain and come back in a week.

Told the person close to me--got what showed me the true feelings--"You mean you have to go through all that AGAIN?"  Well, yeah.

So I virtuously avoided NSAIDs.  Back to, oh, 1979, before they could be had over the counter and any pain I had just had to be suffered through. I spent more time shedding bitter little tears in corners and wistfully thinking about my hair.   I finally reported back, freshly showered, no deodorant, no body powder and wearing the bra I had designated the mammogram bra, since it had never been touched by either of those things and it was easier, at this point, to just keep one for that.  Since it seemed that getting mammograms had become part of my life.

Since I had done all the preliminary work, I was to go straight to the biopsy.  I was in the chill room with the table with the hole, half undressed.  They made me tell them what was about to happen and handed me a marker and mark the proper breast.  I made an X.  The doctor marked the proper breast.  There was a social worker type woman there, who I think was supposed to distract me, but ended up merely annoying me, but it was for my good and my comfort, I'm sure. I climbed up on the table and they were very kind and concerned about my bad hip, made sure I was comfortable, because once they start, you can't move.  The table was in the air.  The technician was on a chair, arranging the plates. The doctor was asking for the views she wanted.  They took pictures upon pictures upon pictures.  A little to the left.  A little to the right.  On and on.  My breast got very sore and they weren't even close to the biopsy part, where I was to get some numbing stuff.

And then.   The doctor, a brash, confident, likable young woman, said, "I've looked for a good half hour and I can't find anything at all I can justify sticking a needle into."

In other words, I got a get out of jail free card.  Where did they go?  No one knows.  I know (and I could not conceivably make this next bit up) that someone I know but have never met, in Calgary, was praying for me, hard, and she believes that when she prays unselfishly, God answers her prayers.  My cousin was certainly praying, and my husband as well (his mother also died of breast cancer).  The person close to me might have, in their own way, have been praying.  In any case, I saw the pictures when it was there and I saw the pictures when it wasn't there.  And they were gone.  So I can't tell you what a stereotactic mammogram is like, because I never really had one.  I have to go back in October.  I got to keep my hair, and my eyelashes.  I never had to worry my daughters.  I suspect that I will have more images done on that breast--it was always a little different than the other, a little odd.  Not bad odd, just eccentric, sort of.

I am relieved.  All the people who knew were relieved. I  get to worry about regular things, like what to make for dinner, and why is that piece of hair pointing up like a horn, and I understand, even now, even with my little brush with the C word, that I am very, very lucky and that I'm part of the statistic where the need for additional images turns out to be nothing.  I will indeed go back in October.  I know now that I need to.

I also understand that this is inconclusive and that I really didn't go through anything except being slightly incommoded and a little scared.  Nothing like women who have real diagnoses, lose their hair, their breasts, (their eyelashes)--everything but their spirit.  I salute them.  I'm a lightweight.  But, if there is someone starting on this path and this helps them a tiny bit, then I'm glad I could.