A place in the life journey? Sooner than expected.

February 2018

I thought I would have about ten more years before experiencing what I did yesterday.

Because of family history, I am on the every-6-months plan for mammograms and clinical breast exams. For the last few years, I've taken those days off of work, done my checkups, and had good afternoons. Taking two days a year to contemplate my own mortality and receive validation of health has been a good practice.

Yesterday was, I thought, another one of those days. I'd expected to get through the tests and consult in the morning, go downtown for a sunny day of window shopping and lunch, and come home in the afternoon. Maybe I'd do some housekeeping, maybe I'd have energy and creativity enough to cook a fun dinner. Hero and I would go to bed early, chat and snuggle, and get a long Friday night's sleep. But that wasn't the day I got. 

I've had troublesome breasts since I was fourteen years old -- over thirty years ago now. My first fluid-filled cyst aspiration was quite the thing: x-ray-guided needle and dark bluish-greenish-brownish fluid filing a giant syringe, and my dad waiting in the corner of the procedure room, wishing my mom had been available to take that afternoon's parenting responsibility.

Self breast-exams during my teens were problematic. I had dense, fibrous breasts. It wasn't easy to know what I was feeling, nor whether it was normal. I'd usually settle for normal-ish, unless something seemed new or painful. As my breasts increased in size (I was a D-cup at 14), those exams were harder to do. Too much tissue, too few options for spreading it thin enough to really get a good feel of it all.

Fast forward a few years: my mom had her own mammogram that showed calcifications. She was 49. Her sister had died from breast cancer 18 months before. I was a senior in college. Mom had just a small cluster of cancer cells, but she took no chances with lumpectomy. That bad breast was removed, and she had a new one constructed from her belly fat. She's survived with no recurrence for 25 years so far.

For me, I went on with years of birth control and babies and nursing. Nursed each son for 2 years or more. (I figured, if breast cancer runs in the family, I'd better use 'em before I had to get rid of them.) My breasts got bigger and bigger over time, especially after the nursing years. Age 40 is when I started the six-month plan for rounds of mammos and breast exams.

It's rough when you start a day with one expectation and have it turn into something very different. After my first mammogram today, I went on to my breast exam. Usually, my nurse-practitioner will get the mammo results, do my exam, and talk about scheduling our next visit.

This time, she walked into the exam room and simply said, "Well, I'm about to ruin your day." I've been seeing this NP for years now. She helped me through my reduction surgery, and has helped calculate the likelihood of my getting breast cancer in my lifetime. She's shrugged her shoulders with me when my mom's genetic testing came back with no known genes for cancer. (Then why do we get it, dang it?!)

Today, she was her straightforward, no-nonsense self. "The radiologist sees some calcifications in both breasts, and they're suspicious enough that we'll need to take some more pictures today." All right, then. She proceeded with the rest of the clinical exam. No signs of lumps or bumps or puckers or bulges. Just tiny couscous-sized bright spots on the x-rays.

I had to wait until the post-lunch shift for the second mammogram. In the meantime, I went out of the clinic and into the main part of the hospital. There's an atrium-like area where I went to sit. I sent a text to Hero, telling him my day had changed, and why. He expressed concern. Offered to call. I knew that if I heard his voice, I'd just start crying, so I wrote back with a no. Instead, I sat there, breathing slowly. Praying. All those Bible verses I'd memorized in Sunday School swirled in my head. The valley of the shadow of death, you know?

No good could come of not eating in the interim, and I went to the cafeteria. I happen to love cafeterias: so many food choices, all ready and waiting to go. I chose to make my own salad, and got a side of sweet potato fries. Hospital cafeterias are good people-watching places, too. You can look all around and wonder at the stories of all those different people. There were medical students and janitorial staff, older people who appeared to be patients, and families. There was one young family of people who where likely Mennonite or Amish. They had a toddler-sized child with them, swaddled in blankets and not walking. The father carried the child wherever they went. I wondered about their lives' stories.