The guilt eventually seizes me, especially when I look at my kids. My so called educated excuses, such as there doesn't appear to be any thread of breast cancer among the women of my family or that I live a healthy lifestyle, start to look pretty thin when I think seriously about my responsibilities.
My sense of duty finally overrides my excuse making and I set up the dreaded appointment. I have family responsibilities that fuel my decision to get on with doing the right thing. It doesn't help my state of mind when I get to the clinic and discover that they appear to have lost all my charts and history from two years prior. Nevertheless, this is a state of the art facility and I know that what is going on inside my body right now is what I need to be truly concerned with.
After filling out reams of forms, I pick up some reading material on the magazine table. It is a photo essay of women who have passed through these very doors and found their lives changed by diagnoses of breast cancer. It is about their struggles and victories, head shavings and uncontrollable nausea, weaknesses and fears and finally, a return to normal life. The book brims with testimonials of these women's gratitude for the treatment and support of this centre and its dedicated staff. I take a quick glance around the room and wonder how many women sitting there this afternoon will have stories like this to tell.
Mammography is a powerful tool in the fight against breast cancer, with detection capabilities of 85 to 90% accuracy. Only 6 to 8% of women who have a screening mammogram have findings that require more detailed scrutiny. On this day, I unexpectedly fall into this small category.
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.
As usual, I do my best to not entertain any scary thoughts over the next few days, but apprehension builds regardless of my best efforts. The day arrives. I am guided to a dimly lit procedure room and sit in a chair that reminds me of being at the dentist's office. A sterile tray of instruments, including the core biopsy needle, is a few feet away. There is ultra sound equipment and a large monitor squarely ahead of me.
I am to have a minimally invasive breast biopsy in which the physician, guided by ultrasound images on the screen before me, will use a needle to extract a core biopsy from the suspicious spot, tissue samples 1/16 of an inch across and possibly inch long. There will be no scar, just a bandaid for a few days and some minor tenderness.
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.
I really do know better than my immediate behavior would indicate and I make a vow to call the clinic early and schedule my next annual appointment. In recent times, I have had the privilege of helping a couple of women who did not get the same easy news I did. I've joined with a battery of supportive friends, do little things that mean so much to them, like taking food over, helping kids with homework, giving rides home from chemo. They have successfully fought breast cancer with indomitable spirit despite all the hardships. These are gutsy women who chide me and teach me that I need to fight that urge to bury my head in the sand. Instead, I need to reach out and grab life.
About the Author:
Ms. Winfield is the director of support for the Fight Like A Girl. she is also publishes breast cancer survival stories to encourage other women. You are welcome to visit, use and add to this resource and please consider buying a t-shirt to help find the cure: Breast Cancer T-Shirt.
