In 2002, in the midst of two- yes, two major life events I got a breast cancer diagnosis. I was weeks aawy from leaving Canada and had started packing up my apartment. Robin was going to be moving into his first place on his own, having decided not to go with me, so we had to pack for him and plan that move. I had a terrible cold, I remember, and was feeling ill and very stressed. I had to sell stuff, store stuff, ship stuff, get stuff ready for moving, pack up my life here, help Robin start his own. Saying I was overwhelmed doesn’t come close to describing my state of mind.
The good news is that I got through my surgery, I made my moves, both of them, and after a rough Journey with radiation treatment in the UK, I was done. Ten years later I was signed off from my frequent mammograms and support programs. I felt somewhat bereft, having to leave behind some quite magnificent UK support. I was done with cancer.
The bad news is I’m back on the same Journey now. 22 years apparently isn’t long enough. I’ve always regretted not writing about what happened to me so here I am, trying to do it again.
For several months I’d been noticing my left breast looking different, smaller. I mentioned it a few times to doctors and nurses, all who said I was older, my breasts were changing, and of course my affected breast would be smaller. Then I asked again. This time I said I wanted a mammogram,
I went in mostly expecting my fears to be unfounded. A few days later I got a call that something was seen in the image and they wanted me to come back for another mammogram and an ultrasound. My heart had sunk when I saw the number and they said it was the breast centre. Bloody flashbacks. This was eerily familiar, following the same pattern from before. They had a cancellation today, they said after I questioned a couple of later dates. Yes, I’ll be there, I said. Then the replacement doctor called to tell me I had calcifications and went on to say that things have really changed since the last time. If it’s cancer, people just live with it, she said. One step at a time, she said. I found myself with that similar dark and suffocating feeling but I still hoped that it would be nothing major.
In I went. I had the regular and the “special” mammogram that hurts more Sitting outside the door, I could hear the technician chatting with the person before me. Then she left the room for a while, spoke to someone in another room and came back to cheerily tell her everything was fine and she could go. My turn. The ultrasound that went on and on and I felt my optimism fading. It faded even more when the technician left to chat with someone in another room, coming back to say that they would like to do a biopsy, and what I like to do that now or make an appointment to do it again another time. I said now.
For a breast biopsy a small incision is made and the ultrasound guides the doctor to remove tissue samples. In my case, there were two areas not too far apart and the biopsy sounds like a loud snap, which makes me jump. The breast is numbed so there’s no pain other than the one in your mind. And so I waited. They told me my result would be ready on Monday or Tuesday- it was Thursday then but I also knew my doctor made calls on Wednesdays so I’d be waiting a while. So that was that. Meanwhile I resisted Googling. I really didn’t want to. It was all a fluke anyway.
I have a friend who has also had breast cancer so I turned to her. The emails tell more of the story:
–I hesitated to email you. I think twenty years isn’t enough. Today I got breast biopsies. PTSD is real.
–Jesus, why would you hesitate? You keeping anything from me makes me nuts. If you don’t tell me everything, I will hunt you down like a dog.
–Why did I hesitate? I didn’t want to dredge it up for you or have you be Pollyanna either. If you Google don’t tell me anything. I just don’t want to know…yet.
–Can’t believe we’re still worrying about this shit. Let’s hope we’re just worry warts.
–“Best case scenario” – benign calcifications. In my last situation every best case fell so yeah PTSD. It’s so going the same way so far. I waver between terrified and matter of fact. Who knows. Maybe I’m good for another twenty years.
— I could not take the loss of you.
Wednesday came the news from my doctor’s summer replacement that there was cancer detected from the biopsy. I would be hearing from an oncologist for another appointment within a week. In fact I heard the next day and the appointment was for the following Tuesday afternoon.