The New Normal

I had never made so many medical appointments in my life.

The day after my mammogram, I got a call back.  They said they wanted me to come back for a sonogram on the right breast and more images. 

I did not panic. I might have told my friend (boss) that she wished this on me, but that was not panicking. That was learning to laugh about it.

My appointment was for the following week. I found myself in the room I'd been grateful not to be in the week before, Diagnostic Screening.  I was one of those women. 

The tomosynthesis and the sonogram were quick, the techs kind. They let me get dressed and brought me back to the imaging room, where a smiley doctor with an open face read my images and told me they "recommended a biopsy".  As if anyone says No thanks, I think I will pass.  


There are signs up in the special changing area of the Not So Good Room, Diagnostic Screening. The signs show normal breasts and cancer in breasts. I'm not an expert, but that little dot on the "cancer" picture looked like my little dot. It did not look good.  Was it cancer? Was I supposed to be worried? Was I not supposed to be worried? No one was saying.  

On my way home, I  bought 10 bottles of wine, red and white. I had no intention of drinking them - I purposely do not drink when I am upset.  Nope, this was just part of being normal. What if friends dropped by? Now I had something to serve.

The following week, my third time at the breast center in as many weeks, I walked in knowing the drill.  First, registration.  I greeted the staff member by name and introduced her to my husband, who had taken the day off work.  We saw yet another statement of escalating costs.  Cancer screening is not cheap.

Then, the geneticist. We went through my entire family tree, and I managed to forget at least half of my relatives.  We discussed genogram software   She talked about risks and options for testing. We made jokes.  Later, I found out my file had "highly suspicious" on it and the geneticist knew, before I did, that I would be diagnosed that week.  She encouraged me to wait, get my results, and then decide on testing.

Next up was my biopsy.  Again, I sat in the Not So Good Room. I saw the high risk nurse practitioner who interrogated me on why she hadn't seen me before (I just turned 40) and on why I didn't feel this mass.  She claimed she could.  (Later, a surgeon told me that was utter bullshit, but I didn't know it at the time).  Then I was passed to a lovely sonogram tech, who explained the procedure in detail and marked my right breast with the word "yes".  For some reason, I found this very funny.

It was an ultrasound guided core biopsy, and I could see the entire procedure on screen. If it wasn't my breast and my health in question, I would have found it really neat.  The tech held my hand the whole time, never letting go of me once, and she talked me through it. As the doctor wrapped up, she asked me if I had a breast surgeon.  Um, no I replied.  Do you have any friends who have a breast surgeon?, she asked.  In my head I was thinking I'm 40.  FORTY.  We have babysitters, not breast surgeons.  But I just said no.  Well, she said, you need one.  

Even if this isn't cancer.

That should have told me everything.  But it didn't.  I still hadn't gotten the message.