A few days after my first mammogram, a letter arrived in the mail. Actually, not really a letter, more of a form. On the form were several
check boxes used to indicate
whether or not my images were sufficient for a conclusive reading and if that reading yielded positive results.
A single box was checked indicating that in my case, additional images were necessary. While manipulating my sweaty
body parts, the technician had mentioned that I could very well get a callback as many first time mammograms often needed additional scans taken in order to develop a conclusive "baseline" reading.
Still smarting from the trauma of the first visit and being right on top of the holidays, I tossed the letter aside and vowed to get to it when I got to it. After all, the "suspicious findings" box hadn't been checked so why rush right back? I figured I'd just get Santa out of the way and then I'd go right in.
Christmas came and, I'm not going to lie, it involved way more cookies than the average human should be allowed to consume--especially if said human is a mere 5'2" and not at all interested in exercise. Gone were the woes and shameful thoughts of
mammogram day when my gut protruded out over my jeans. Gone were the thoughts of all things healthy like 3-Day training walks and mammograms and doctors. It was a jolly time.
January rolled around and I made time for the follow up appointment. It had been two months since the form had arrived. The same technician met me in the waiting area and gave me my hearty little pink paper shirt. I have to admit, it was even more stunning with my post-Christmas binge figure. This being my second visit, I felt like an old mammogram pro so there was less breast squishing worry and more time to focus on my Alfred Hitchcock figure as I flipped through some ridiculous glamour magazine.
While I waited, the technician disappeared into another room to look at my scans and determine what she needed to do for this visit. After a few minutes, she was still in the
adjoining room and had called another technician in to look at my scans. Moments later, she called me in.
"This is your right breast," she said, tapping a ghostlike image on the screen. "These," she tapped tiny white dots with her pen, "are what we need additional images of." Immediately, I started to sweat. "The person who reads the mammograms needs a close-up of this area so he can look at these." She tapped the image with her pen again. The cluster of small dots spun before me.
She led me into the imaging room and once again I was clamped into the evil jaws of the mammogram machine. This time, however, I wasn't distracted by the discomfort or the embarassment of my rotund figure. This time I was worried about a cluster of tiny white dots.
The next day, I received a phone call from my OBGYN office. "Your scans have been read and you have a suspicious cluster of calcifications in your right breast and you need a biopsy done immediately," said the pleasant lady on the other end of the line. I tried to imagine our roles reversed and having to deliver such heart stopping news to people over the phone. Neither side of the phone line had an easy time of it. After giving me information on surgeons and the urgency of the upcoming biopsy, the lady on the phone said, "Good luck with this. I hope everything turns out okay for you."
It was then that I realized the seriousness of the situation. I was scared before, yes, but something about her wishing me luck made me feel as if I was about to swan dive into the arms of fate.
My pre-op appointment with the surgeon was scheduled for a week out. During that week, I managed to travel to the end of the Internet and back Googling every single article and picture on breast microcalcifications. For my troubles I got everything from "it's going to be just fine" to "you're probably going to have to have a double mastectomy." My mind reeled with the myriad of possiblities that lay before me and the simple fact that I had no control over any of them. What was done was done and now all I could do was ride the wave.
Surgery day arrived and before sunup my fiancee drove me to an imaging center. After sheafs of paperwork, I was given a gown and my right breast was clamped into a mammogram machine for a good 10 minutes or so while a doctor injected the area with dye and placed several thin wires in my breast to indicate to the surgeon the area that would be removed. An assistant was charged with wrapping me in warm blankets and giving me tissues while I sat and cried.
Wires taped in place, I was returned to my fiance's care and we were directed to the hospital where the actual surgery would take place. Because of the location of my microcalcifications, the surgeon was unable to do a simple biopsy using just a needle. Instead, I had the pleasure of putting on a hospital gown and being wheeled into the ER where a (now blue) chunk of my right breast was removed.
One week later, during a follow up appointment, I was gifted with the results of my biopsy. In the procedure, it turns out the doctor had removed pre-cancerous cells. "If you had not had anything done, you would eventually have gotten cancer," he stated in that matter-of-fact-I-impart-this-kind-of-news-all-day-every-day kind of way. I sat in stunned silence. Pre-cancerous sells? I had no history of breast cancer in my family. How could this be? I didn't smoke, I rarely drink, the only thing I'm guilty of is consuming my weight in baked goods every Christmas. How could I possibly have the precursor to
cancer?
With this knowledge in hand, I made my way back out into the world. Thankful that I did not have cancer and I was saved by getting my mammogram, I was suddenly so thankful that I am walking in this year's 3-Day that I could have cried. I got lucky this time but you just never know what life is going to toss at you...
