A couple of years ago, I wrote about my total knee replacement (See
"Dr. Ortho or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the
Knee.") Since then, the knee has been great, my life has been great,
everything has been going great.
Until September 2015.
In 2014, I had to change my physicians because I became eligible for
Medicare. I picked up a primary care provider that I liked and had my annual
exams done including mammogram. Everything was good.
In July 2015, I called to make an appointment for my annual physical and
was told my PCP was no longer there, so I made an appointment with the new
doctor. I had a cursory examination, discussed referrals to two
specialists, and was told I might not be able to get an annual mammogram since
the "powers that be" have decided every other year is good enough for
my age group. I demanded an annual mammogram since my mother had breast cancer,
so my PCP put in the referral.
I made appointments for the two specialists in September. I had to see
a podiatrist because of recurring pain in my left foot, and I needed to find a
new orthopedic doctor since I knew my left knee - the UN-replaced one, would
someday need some help. The podiatrist took X rays, the ortho took X rays, and
both suggested some things. I took the recommendation from the podiatrist
for a shot of cortisone, and told the ortho that I wasn't really in pain at the
moment, just needed a baseline and someone to call if necessary. Everything was
good.
The cortisone shot made my left foot hurt more. I limped around on it
for a while, and then my left knee began to hurt. Dang! Finally
just after the ides of September, the left knee sat up and began screaming
loudly that all was not right. At this point, I was really hobbling. I
even had to resurrect the cane and everything. I called the ortho and got an appointment
on the 22nd for a new shot series - one a week for three weeks. This new stuff
is called (I am not making this up) Euflexxa. I know, sounds like a bad joke,
doesn't it?
The mammogram appointment is set for the 21st. I hobble in, holding
onto my cane and the mammogram machine in order to get my mammogram done.
They are always such fun. My late Aunt used to refer to them as
"Titty squeezing." That doesn't begin to describe it. I’ve often said
that if men had to get their prostate exams by having their testicles squeezed
between two hard, cold plates, we’d have a whole new way to test for breast
cancer.
The day after the mammo, I got the first knee shot. I felt no real
difference right away, but after a couple of days, it did seem to be slightly
better. Foot was still hurting, but I’ve decided to ignore it. Maybe it will go away. The knee trumps the
foot right now.
And then, on the 23rd, I get the really great call, the call we women love
to get, the Mother of All Calls, "We need you to come back in and do
another mammogram."
Actually, I’m really not too worried at this point. I’ve been called back
before and nothing was found. I come in for the mammo redux on the 24th.
By this time, the knee had settled to a dull roar, and I am able to handle the second
mammogram without holding on to a cane. Of course, it’s my left breast that is
affected. What is it the Bible says, “If
thy left side offends thee, cut it out?” or something like that. The left foot,
the left knee, the left breast. As the French say, this is really “gauche.”
The "squeezing" is much more lethal now as the large press is
exchanged for the smaller "increase the pressure" paddle. More
pressure on smaller plate equals big ouch. I’m escorted to the waiting
room for the results.
Whoops, second mammogram isn’t enough; I must now go into the ultrasound
room. Suddenly, things are not so matter of fact. Hundreds of years ago,
when I was pregnant, ultrasounds were not routinely done. I’ve never had an
ultrasound before, but I’ve seen them on TV. The ultrasound doesn't hurt like
the mammo as the technician slides the “puck” around on my breast, but the very
idea of it has sinister possibilities. She presses into my breast and
side numerous times, but I don’t look at the screen. I don’t want to see what’s
on there.
After the US, I'm told to get dressed, and they will tell me the
results. I walk into the radiologist's office, and he has a lovely, big
picture of my breast on the screen with a nice white spot in it. There it
is. I have a lump in my breast. The one thing women fear has happened to
me.
"Wait," I tell him, "I self-exam. I've never felt
anything." He tells me there is no way I could have felt this one because
it is so deep. Well, so much for the joys of self-exam. They’ve
been telling us for years how important it was to self-exam, but obviously, not
always.
“Wait,” I tell him, “I have a mammogram every year. There was nothing on it
last year, was there?” He assures me he checked last year’s film, no lump
detected.
“Wait,” I start to tell him, but there’s nothing I can tell him. Defeated, I
sit and listen.
He tells me the lump is about 1.5 cm. Small.
Got it early. Before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, he says, "You'll
need to come in for a biopsy of your breast and also your lymph nodes, since
one of those appears to be swollen."
Well, isn't that special? It’s two for one day. Not just the lump in the
breast, but the lymph nodes as well. I don’t know much about breast cancer or
any kind of cancer, but I know lymph node involvement immediately raises the
stakes. The nurse manager steers my body into her office and asks if I have any
questions. Questions? I don't know what to ask. What just happened
here? I'm in shock. She is very nice and supportive, we set up the biopsy
appointment for October 2nd, and I leave.
As I walk out of the office, my mind is reeling. I don’t feel sadness or
anger or fear. I don’t feel much of anything. I simply cannot process what has
just happened.
My health care group has email notifications of test results, appointment
reminders etc. When I get a notification of the latest mammogram and
ultrasound results, it uses the term "BIRAD-5, highly suspicious." I
google this, not having heard this at the exam. WHOA - I have a 5% chance that
the biopsy WON'T be cancer. The odds are definitely NOT in my favor.
I begin to read everything I can about breast cancer - no, let me clarify
that - breast cancerS. There are so many different kinds of breast
cancer, and for each difference, there is a different treatment. I had no
idea. My knowledge of breast cancer goes from 0-60 in a flash. I
now know enough to be extremely dangerous.
Suzanne, before the "fit hit the shan" this summer (first Bob's botched colonoscopy resulting in a hemicolectomy, and suddenly strangulated hernia, then this) I used to joke that "God must think I'm a wuss." After my diagnosis, I prayed to Him: "Dear Lord, I am flattered, but would it be so terrible if You could think a little less highly of me?"
ReplyDeleteAnd I used to refer to mammography as "putting Thelma and Louise (the "girls'" nicknames) through the wringer" (referencing a rather graphically misogynistic expression for hassling a woman--in "All the President's Men," Woodward and Bernstein quoted Nixon's henchmen using it to describe what they wanted to do to Washington Post publisher Kay Graham.
BTW, I didn't get to see my mammogram until I underwent the core needle biopsy. I did first watch the ultrasound screen, per the radiologist's suggestion, as she demonstrated the mass (which looked sort of like a kidney bean) wasn't a cyst because the probe couldn't compress it. She estimated it from the ultrasound to be only 7mm, but it looked much bigger when I saw the mammogram--with all the spiculations branching out like a jagged star. Turned out to be 1.3cm--but you already know the size of yours based on the diagnostic mammo, not a guesstimate like mine.
BTW, it's ChiSandy/Dulcimer Diva here--had to post using my Google handle
ReplyDeleteI knew it was you Sandy - the folkiefoodie was the clue! Looking forward to talking to you
DeleteOh Suzanne...we know the drill very well...
ReplyDeleteJuanita is doing well after a week in the hospital for her first chemo...such an interesting and special treat for both of us!! Please email Juanita at juaquilts97@reagan.com to exchange info in a better format. I also did frequent Facebook daily updates during our hospital week and you can friend my to get a fun blow by blow. Juanita has five more chemo sessions to go every 28 days which won't cure her leukemia but should put it back into background mode again. Fun stuff, but we're good with it. You know we are with you on this. Keep that sense of humor. It has sure kept our heads up through this adventure.....