Some decades ago, I made a decision that changed my life. I don’t know who I would have been if it hadn’t happened. After a fairly average pregnancy, I felt a pull to support people through their own experience. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. I was agoraphobic from a young age and, once on the road to recovery, stepped into the directorship of an organisation that helped others cope with their phobias.
To make a long story short, I found somewhere that trained prenatal teachers who had no university or nursing background, and I applied. They told me they accepted 1 in 10, so I was thrilled to be one of them. The training was long and serious. I had a very young baby, but I knew I was where I needed to be. It’s a vocation. It has to be because no one ever got rich from it. During my 100 classroom hours, I learned something (enough?) about a staggering number of things. Anatomy, anaesthesiology, pharmacology, embryology, massage and other complementary therapies, pain theory, pain management, exercise, nutrition, parenting, newborn care, high-risk pregnancies, and much more. I attended births as an observer and as a labour supporter. I swaddled babies, held hands, talked to children who were expecting siblings, and led tours for teenagers where I had a chance to shape their understanding of pregnancy and parenting. I attended and ran conferences. I met some incredible women – my fascinating and strong fellow teachers, and the amazing experts in my field. Many are dead now, but they live in my head, my heart and my resolve.
I loved to write, and so I was accepted as a contributor to the national pregnancy and parenting magazine and gained fans. It felt good and important.
I taught for years, then was asked if I’d consider joining the hospital I was working for as admin support. My main job was to bring their registration system into the present by working with the IT department. I would also be writing their patient/client literature. Life was sweet. Out and about, I’d be stopped by young families – “You were our teacher. This is our child.” I glowed. I stopped teaching and began instead helping to train new teachers, and in the age of the internet, I counselled people on an online parenting site, and I began writing articles for the hospital outreach – branching out to all women’s health issues. Through my work online, I was offered a co-author (localisation) of a Dummies book. I’m not sure I recommend it – the American side of it is “off” – but it’s here. NB Writing a book is many, many, many hours of writing and rewriting, and in the end, might pay a few pennies an hour. Lesson learned.
Tools of the childbirth education trade/ We get used to it. Fabic placentas and breasts and knitted uteri are normal. Even now, I’m thinking about teaching how that big baby head passes through the pelvis. Clients were always surprised to see how it actually happens
I left in 2002. I had had a cancer diagnosis, and I wanted to get back to London. I tried to teach there, but it wasn’t the easy path I’d found in Toronto. It was also going to be costly. I felt sad, but my vocation was over. But it wasn’t really. My heart is still there, even now. My interest is still high, and I still challenge how things work for women. It’s such a feminist issue. I’m here for it.
Endings? Oh, yes. On Monday i went to Sunnybrook Hospital to meet my friend, Leslie. My department had moved there from a women and family-centred hospital downtown (Women’s College Hospital) to a much more corporate hospital with a patriarchal system (Sunnybrook Health Centre). About a month ago, the hospital informed them that they were closing the service. I could say a lot about this, but I’m not sure it’d help my stressed brain to do so. Closing. After I don’t know how many years, to be honest, maybe fifty. There’s a lot of opposition, frankly, it’s about profit and nothing else. The women’s and families’ needs come second. It’s brought up a lot of memories for me. So many good ones, including those I’ve talked about here. I feel like I’ve lucked into many golden ages of many things in my life. Perhaps that’s just ego, each generation believing they lived the best. I don’t know.
Sunnybrook Hospital is looking like a mall these days
I didn’t ever get a chance to see their new premises. It came and went without me, as so many things have and will. I looked at Leslie’s windowless room, thinking about the luxury of windows and space we’d had at Women’s College Hospital and how informal and friendly everything had been. No matter how busy or how large a task I took on, it never felt like work. How lucky I’ve been. I photographed the collection of teaching tools and the wonderful cubby hole cabinet we’d used that once had the teachers’ names at the slots. It was beautifully custom-made by a teacher’s husband. Where would it be next? There was anger, sadness and despair in the air, so we made our own happy memories and thoughts in this new, now vanishing, space. With such interesting and independent-minded women on board, we could recount many ridiculously funny stories.
The CFLP cubby. What will happen to it?
Everything ends.
We have decided to stay in this flat for a full year at least. Have we resigned ourselves to being here and leaving London behind? Hell, no. We are both far too conscious of what we left behind. We know that things aren’t always rosy there, and there are many changes – many that make us very sad – but what we’ve lost wasn’t ever about those things. Will leave this here.
The rest of the photos tell the story of what I’ve done, where I’ve been. Hint – not much and not far! Ha.
The second bedroom is full of boxes, empty or not unpacked. It’s a mess but it will slowly empty … right?This is an old Italian neighbourhood for the most part – it’ll fill it with vegetables soon, and I’ll be longing to pick some. Used to love foraging and scrumping as a childThe Crazy Store. Still haven’t made it in there. I really have to go up with my camera one day, and hope they don’t mind me taking photosDaffodils. Memories of a London spring. Bunches and bunches of the damn things in our flat every day till they stopped selling them. I can’t imagine this now. SighWaiting for the Artemis launch on 1st April.Almost tempted but $10 for an individual one. Not sure. Need to learn to make my own. The fish pie had no smoked fish in it so easier to pass by.Maple Season. I’ve always wanted to go see them tap and boil the sap. Never happenedBuds! Finally. It will be May before things are in full leaf and bloom.Restaurant kitchen work Just love these guys and chatting to them. They are so kind and friendly. The restaurant is open Wednesday through Saturday. We aren’t bothered by the low volume music, can’t hear any talking, and we won’t see the diners until things move outside – June?
Friday Photos
March 27. The frontMarch 27. The oak treeMarch 27. Side. All the snow is gone
March 27 Backyard. We haven’t seen the Old Man yet. Oh dear
According to Google, a Port (cath-a-port) is an implantable venous access device. It’s a small medical appliance, consisting of a reservoir (port) and a thin tube (catheter), that is placed under the skin—usually in the right side of the chest—to provide easy access to a large vein. From the outside, it’s similar to a pacemaker – a bump under the skin on the chest,
Mine has sat there for about a year now. It wasn’t always cooperative, but considering the problems I had with bloodwork and administering the various medications and the damage chemotherapy can do to our veins, I was grateful to have it.
Chemo and immunotherapy over, I had some blood tests done to prove I was healthy enough, and off I went to get my little friend removed.
I arrived, as asked, at 8:30am for my 9am appointment. I spent that extra half hour sitting and trying not to think ahead. They’d asked me to have someone take me home, which meant sedation would be involved. I’ll be honest and admit that my fearful imagination had me lying with blood spurting everywhere when they removed it. The surgeon had told me, at the insertion procedure, that he’d had “challenges” getting it done. What if they had the same challenges removing it? I have the best imagination *(or is that worst?).
The waiting room
I was called in pretty much right at 9. I got my “clothes above the waist” into a bag, and I waited until about 9:30 for a doctor to show up.
Ready to put my gown on
When he arrived, he read my blood test results out loud and explained that he would be removing the port now. I waited for my sedation, but it didn’t happen, nor was it mentioned. I was torn between being relieved they wouldn’t be accessing and possibly botching up my veins, and nervous that I’d be, well, nervous. No time to dwell on it.
The doctor warned me that “this was the painful part,” injecting me around the site – just above my breast on the right. It really didn’t hurt that much. After all the slicing and dicing, prodding and pioking cancer brings, it was just another thing really. The doctor had also told me that he’d be taking the port out and that, since it had been in there a year, it might not want to leave that easily. I did feel a bunch of pushing and pulling that went on for about five minutes. Then the doctor asked, do you want to say bye to your port? I said yes. And he held it up for me to see. Wow. It was smaller than I’d imagined. And plonk it went into a dish. “Now the longest part, the stitches.” I imagined it in my mind as it was going on. Would it be neat stitches or a just-so job like with my lumpectomy? I wouldn’t know until all the dressings and steri-strips were gone, a couple of weeks away. I let the doctor know that I was allergic to adhesives, and he told me that it was just a clear plastic to protect the wound and shouldn’t be a problem.
When he left, I felt a bit dizzy and weird and asked if Krish could come in, but they said, not yet. The nurse put this down to anxiety and brought me some juice. That helped. A few minutes later, they brought Krish in, and he helped me get dressed.
It was well and truly done.
From my stretcherAll done and happyWe shared a maple walnut muffin and hot chocolate afterwards
At home, I had a long nap after a bowl of soup. I was tired and a bit sore. Tylenol helped. I was well enough to make dinner later, then was glad for my bed just a bit earlier than usual.
Today is Saturday. I’m aware that the adhesive is a bit of a problem after all. My skin is itchy and inflamed around the edges. This is how it starts, so later we’ll change the bandage to something that’s easier on me,
I’m not really looking forward to my next blood test or IV but I’m not sorry that this chapter is now closed. I’ll put some photos below but give some warning space for anything triggering.
I had an oncology follow-up at 9am. It felt surreal. It had been ages since I’d had to go to the Cancer Care Clinic so early, but I got there in pretty good time. Going up in the elevator, I realised I didn’t remember what floor it was on. It’s 6? I trusted cell memory to know. The usual signing in with my health card, checking my details and giving me my armbands – the name one and the purple Risk of Fall one. I looked around at all the people who I supposed were earlier in their journey. If they had hair…
It was 9:35 or so before they called me in to get bloodwork. Once at seat 18 a nurse who I’d never met before welcomed me. Yes, I still had a port. I’d been wondering if the long three months without using it would set me back. In the beginning, it was so difficult to access. When they first insert a cannula (OK, needle!) blood should flow into the catheter. It tells them everything is OK. In my case, it rarely did, not without much “jumping” about, waving my arms, changing position, and coughing. Then one day it suddenly behaved and continued that way. Today was back to callisthenics and “cough forcefully.” Joy! The nurses cheerfully guessed on which manoeuvre had done it, while I was just grateful it had. Bloodwork and saline flushing accomplished, I could go back to the waiting room. I looked again around the big room, everything familiar in a haunting way, the nurses all bustling or in some cases, gliding about as if no time had passed at all.
It’s oddly satisfying seeing the routine at every viist
It takes about 45 minutes for bloodwork to be analysed, and the doctor would see me after that. I went to the pantry for some orange juice and fresh water. There were digestive biscuits today, that’s nice.
Exam room 2. Needs some cheering up!
No sooner had I reached my seat back in the waiting room than they called my name to go see my oncologist. That’s back near the pantry! I waited in exam room 2 to await the doctor’s words. I had a few questions
Dr Watson told me I’d done an amazing job for the year. Had I? (No, that wasn’t one of the questions,) I’d had some bumps in the road, but I’d made it – well done! Now I’d be seeing Dr Lim, my surgeon, and he’d pass me along to the special clinic. My mammogram was clear; they were still there for me, but they hoped I wouldn’t see them again. Amen to that. Answers to my questions – no, no need for the heart echogram since any heart damage reverses after treatment. No, I wouldn’t need the mammogram ordered for May. And no, it wasn’t unusual that I felt I’d regressed. Moving is hard. Be patient. My aches and pains? Those weren’t necessarily from the medication, but did I want to try another? I decided no. Everyone, he said, gets the pain; it’s normal. Ha, “good” to know. Goodbye and thank you, doctor.
They’d left the cannula in my port in case the doctor were to decide I needed it for something else. Like what? I was glad not to ask. Tess, the doctor’s nurse, showed up to let me know they didn’t have all the results from the blood tests yet, so sit tight. I had just under an hour to get the results, get my cannula removed, pick my drugs up from the drugstore, and make my 11:35 ride out of there. At the nurse’s station, there were two containers of cookies and a box of doughnuts all pointed towards me. Could I have one? I was met with stares. I opted for no, but noticed no one was smiling. Well, who needs the calories? Certainly not me. Yes, I made it. Print-outs secured, cannula removed, drugstore visited, drugs procured. Out!
Abadoned nurses station from ny chair. This was Pre Treats
Only after I’d left did I realise, wait! I wasn’t seeing him again. No yearly follow-ups? That wasn’t my path the last time. Well, I am seeing Dr Lim in about five weeks, and there’ll be more questions and hopefully all the answers.
The last time I’ll wear my “lucky” chemo outfit? You can see where my port is covered high on my chest
I was surprised at how emotional I’d felt. In retrospect, I could have felt happy at leaving this behind, but instead I felt lonely and sad. Things flooded back to me. This part was over.
We are moving again. It’s the way things have been since we got here. I’ve actualy lost count of the number of places. Let’s see – Stadium Road, Kingston Road (briefly) back to Stadium Road,, Margueretta (I;m going to lose the order now), Dowling, Ossington, Roxton downstairs, Roxton upstairs, Shanley, Cabdy Faciory, Euclid, Brock, Dufferin, St Clarens, King West. Fifeen! We’ve made thirteen moves in about three years. Being nomadic has pros and cons. What we haven’t liked – the packing and unpacking, the actual moving, the places that we wanted to leave but couldn’t, the bad landlords, the smelly places, the too-cold places, the poor selection of kitchenware, the places with no storage, no counter space, the noisy places, the two-steep staircases, the owner’s belongings encroaching everywhere, the too-small fridges or stoves, the ‘creatures,’ the list goes on.
In case you wondered, there have been good things. It’s quite exciting to be in different places, it can give you a taste of different decor, different architecture, different room arrangements, even different dishes can be interesting. You learn something from each place. What you like, what you don’t., and what you don’t is sometimes more important than what you do. We keep learning.
We’ve had our favourites. Three, in fact. This place has been one of them. The space is small but so economically designed. I’m a fan of that. We’ll also miss this view, which connected us to the world outside.
It was easy to be messy in a confined space, but it’s worked here. I’ll miss itI’ll miss this even more than the indoor space. The windows opposite with their individual, imagined stories were inspiring
There were two others. When we saw the ad for a place in The Candy Factory, Toronto’s first loft-condominium. The pictures were amazing and the price lower than we’d have imagined for such a place. We went over within the hour and were greeted by the current nomad-renter. Quite honestly, the apartment was stunning, the kitchen and living room wowed. We said yes, and within a day or so, we were approved and had it booked.
I can’t believe I didn’t blog while at the Candy Factory. It was a stunning place and the photos don’t show it well. We were there for two months and would have gone back – the owner goes away during the winter and again in the summer – but she raised the price by over $1,000 when she got some shelves affixed to the exposed brick wall.
The space was gorgeous, and the view was fantastic. It was a dream. And that kitchen…
The Candy Factory loft apartment was eye-wateringly gorgeous right from the start. That kitchen! The city view was opulent
Another place was an apartment above a restaurant, Actinolite (and how we named the apartment). We booked it on Airbnb. From the pictures Krish shared with me, I wasn’t keen, but with days to spare on our current rental, it was the only choice, so we took it. When we walked up the stairs from the backyard, I was shocked to see the space. I wasn’t expecting how large and well-furnished it was. The kitchen was a dream – the owner was the restaurateur downstairs. After the first month, we made a private arrangement, lowered the rent, and settled in until we had to move again.
One of the best things about the apartment was living upstairs from a busy restaurant. We couldn’t quite bring ourselves to eat there. It was a pricey menu.
Photos from the Actinolite apartment – and our next one. Captions are from our last stay. The living space was ‘grown up,’ as Krish said.
The living room never looks as spacious in a photo. Here we’ve already started to make ourselves at home (euphemism)The massive kitchen island overlooks the living room. oChef-owners get my vote. Also note – gas stove
We had come very close to booking a place for seven months, but weren’t happy at the prospect. The upsides were a good size, a bright living space, and a good long stay. The downsides were that the owners weren’t very warm and the location was problematic. On the very last few days before we needed to commit, I saw a new listing on Facebook. The location was good and the price cheaper than the one we were considering. We agreed to go over within a few hours. We liked the space, although we thought it a bit small, but the owners were warm and positive. We had a good feeling but took the weekend to think about it. Then we sealed the deal. We’ve loved being here. It isn’t too small at all. The location has been perfect. We’re close to a small supermarket (with a Starbucks counter) – so good for me when I’ve not been able to go very far, a large drugstore, hardware store, furniture store, and a bargain fashion store. I’ve even gone to the McDonalds a couple of times – I’m no fan. Just across the street, I’m in a neighbourhood with retail I can visit on my ‘good days.’ The streetcar stop is at the bottom of the road, just steps away. Perfect if I want to be independent.
But every place comes to an end when you’re a nomad. Telling the story of this rental’s ending will be cathartic.
We liked it here enough to want to stay in this building, if not in the actual apartment. We started looking at a few rentals here and even some in the next building. One was available too early to take advantage of, one of them was rented before I could view it, and then I saw one that might work. The problem was that it was in bad shape and needed some work before it could be released for rent. After a bit of thinking, I said that as long as I could see the place before signing, to make sure the work was done, I would make an offer, less than asking. There was some back and forth, the owners wouldn’t cave to a lower price, and I agreed to pay the asking rent. An agreement form arrived at 8:30 pm (how I wish I hadn’t opened or acknowledged it, but it said Congratulations, they’ve chosen you over another offer), and I was told I had until midnight to sign and return the form, after which I’d have 24 hours to go to the bank and get a bank draft for the deposit amount. I signed. We had a blizzard, and the city shut down. I let the real estate know that I couldn’t get to the bank, and it wasn’t open on a weekend anyway. Then Krish read what I signed and let me know I’d signed things that we should never have agreed to. Again, I asked to see if the repairs had been done before agreeing to anything else and was told, ‘it will be.’ Not good enough. I got an extension due to the weather, and the real estate agent said that Krish should decide what he wanted to change, but reminded us that we’d already agreed. I felt the blame and the shame. We never got to see the apartment with its work finished, we never got to change the agreement, and we never went to the bank. We let it fall through and the agent fell silent. The apartment was gone.
I enquired about a different apartment through a website. An agent called and spoke to Krish. We saw a few and liked one. It was the same brokerage, and we feared trouble. This agent heard our story and felt the first agent had let us down by not drawing our attention to the clauses we didn’t like or letting us have proof that the work was done. ‘Never take their word for it.’ The apartment we wanted had the same broker. We anticipated problems, but our new agent ran interference and felt positive. He said that our agent had thrown us under the bus. I was only slightly surprised. She remained silent, anyway. After signing a new offer, with this new agent vetting the wording, we waited. Silence. We asked about the one with the repairs and the agent said it wouldn’t hurt to ask, and he would. After two days, the agent let us know they ‘weren’t going forward with us.’ It hurt.
We decided not to try for anything else. If it was the same broker for this building and the one next door, it would be a useless exercise. It was 10 February, and we wanted to move on the 21st. Despair set in. I couldn’t move. I got in touch with Claudia, who owned the flat above the restaurants. We’d had to move out because they were moving in while their new house was being renovated. The 3-6 month renovation turned into a year, and then they had promised to rent the place to a friend for a while. Claudia had messaged me in the fall to ask if we were interested in renting for the new year. At that time I said I’d had a tough year and was not sure if I could manage the stairs again and would have to revisit it. So I revisited on the spot.
Chat with Claudia:
Jan: Hi Claudia, what’s the status now? We are looking for a stopgap rental.
Claudia Hi Janice. It’s vacant- I was going to post it tomorrow.
Jan: Can you show me the posting first? We can’t commit long-term. We want a one-year option, but our budget is XXX for the long-term option.
Claudia: If you would like to be there long term, we would be willing to have you and Krishna return and can accept XXX. You took such good care of the place and were a pleasure to have around.
Jan: Would you consider short-term at all? A few months… And maybe stretch it. I’m not as able as I was.
Claudia: Yes, we’re good with that. I remember you sharing that you had a tough year. Is there anything offhand that could help you in the apartment- besides an elevator!
Jan: Ha. I think it’s a wait-and-see to see how I cope.
Claudia : You can move in on the 21st. [I’ll touch base with you on Tuesday. Either way – you have a place. Yay! I’m so happy it finally all worked out!
Jan: You have no idea
Claudia: I was literally opening my laptop and starting to link photos for the post to rent.
I call this Serendipity.
Krish has doubts. Things he’s not happy about: The location – not near the stores he visits and he’ll need to take transit. The windows – they face west and ‘there’s no sky.’ The neighbourhood – it’s quiet, no people traffic to speak of and very residential. He knows the pluses. He really didn’t want to move out when we did. He does that thing before we move out of anywhere. He moan-wails the name of the place we’re living in, many times a year. Back then, he moan-wailed, Oh, Actinolite (the name of the restaurant) many times a day. This time, he’s moan-wailing, Oh, Joe Shuster. It’s pointless to stop him. It’s part of the ritual of moving. Are we making the right choice? he asks. Help me decide, he says. What are the bad things, he asks. He agonises. I tell him we’re moving, we have a place, and we will decide when we get there. I persevere. Oh, Joe Shuster.
Krish is obsessive about moving too. Once he starts, even a minute away is a crime. But I have to take a minute pr ten away. My fatigue level demands it. Yesterday I heard a shout from the bedroom, ‘There are still clothes in your drawers.’ ‘Yes, there are still days in the week.’
(There’s more to this, but as I tell Krish, I’ll wait to get into that when we’re there. I’m sad to leave here. It gave me such independence. But I see the advantages and serendipity has saved me once again.)
Familiar sight – the moving boxes. Oh, Joe Shuster
A note about serendipity. In 1990, I separated from my husband. It was an awful time, but the best decision. I was a single parent with a part-time job and nowhere to go. I had hoped that my friends would have reached out to me offering help. They knew I was in a bad position. No one did. Then I remembered something they taught us at my work at the hospital when we were being acquired by a bigger hospital and were told a third of us would be gone in a year. The lesson was this: you have to jump before your parachute will open. So I jumped, and my parachute opened. Two friends offered me places to stay and made sure Robin could get to school, and we were safe. Then a friend of a friend needed a summer housesitter, no charge. Then a friend of another friend was going away to study and offered their house at a low rent. With only a few weeks left in my short lease, a friend told me she had a letter for me. The letter said that if I called, I would be offered a new apartment on a rent-geared-to-income basis. I had been on the list for eight years, the letter had reached my friend just days before my mail forwarding service expired, and I’d received the letter just days before the housing offer expired. The apartment was fantastic in the best neighbourhood possible. Serendipity became my friend.)
Today was my follow-up mammogram – at last. I got ready, remembering not to wear deodorant and choosing clothes that were easy to take off. The scan was at Women’s College Hospital, where I worked for so long – although this is a new building now. Continuing from the Live Page:
I love WheelTrans. Even when they are late, I still love them. They’ve opened up my life. Today it sped me down to the hospital, no delays. In fact, the driver was, I told Krish, ‘driving like a bat out of hell. Great, he said. What? But I got there alive so that’s OK.
Proud of Women’s College, always a champion for women, although all genders are welcome here
The breast centre is on the 5th floor. I was early and thought maybe that would mean I’d have time afterwards to get some shopping. They sent me off to the changing room. This was all so familiar. Grabbing a gown, undressing, putting the gown on, throwing everything in a locker, and off to the waiting room. There I need to fill out a form, considering carefully how to show all my surgeries, all my results…and all the time thinking, why can’t I have done this at home, online, ready for me when I got here? There are always questions I falter on: When was your last menstruation? Hmm… Some things don’t change.
The technician came to get me. I was pleased to see that she was the same person who had done my last three scans. She’s an older lady with a calm manner. I let her know that I was worried this might hurt more than usual, since it already hurt anyway. She promised she’d be careful. She was. All the turning and arranging myself, it’s all familiar, yet the technician has to push and pull and shift your body and breasts as if you’ve never done this before. I had forgotten I was concerned about my port getting squished when the right breast was scanned, but she noticed it and said it would only be a little pinch. She was right.
Instruments of torture, I mean breast (squishing) plates for the machineTechnician’s area, safe from the scan raysMammogram machine. Many women fear it. Luckily, I’ve never found it difficult.
And I was done. The technician took me back to the changing room and as she said goodbye she lightly stroked my arm. I went into overdrive. What did that mean? Was she consoling or reassuring me? I pushed off the feeling and got dressed.
Emails from and to Denise:
Denise
12:56
Xx Jan
13:04
Thanks. Waiting. I’m not usually scared. This one might hurt. Hope hope hope 💕
Denise
13:07
I just want the best news in the world please. xxxxxxxx Did you take any Clonazepam before? Marla gave me a morphine pain killer for before! (it made me sick so now I do MRIs) Jan
13:11
Don’t have any drugs except Tylenol. I meant to take one. Oh well. It doesn’t last long. I’ll warn them
Jan
13:13
Took a Tylenol. It won’t kick in in time but I took it anyway
Jan
13:49
Will blog about it. The worst part is the food prices downstairs while I wait for my ride
Denise Grant
13:52
You’re still thinking of food??
Of course I am. That’s me. My cab arrived to take me home, this time more slowly.
View from the front door of Women’s College Hospital. In the background to the left, the Ontario Legislative Buildings (Queen’s Park), to the right, government offices. The Women’s sign in the centreWheel-Trans accessible taxi
I had just sat down to check something in email when I saw there was already a test result:
BILATERAL MAMMOGRAM
INDICATION: Surveillance. Status post left lumpectomy.
COMPARISON: Multiple priors, most recent May 2025.
FINDINGS:
The breasts show scattered fibroglandular densities. Stable post therapeutic changes are seen in the left breast.
There are no dominant nodules or suspicious calcifications seen in either breast.
IMPRESSION: No evidence of malignancy. Routine follow-up is recommended.
There it is. And the aftermath:
Judy that’s most excellent Jan congratulations❤️ Me Celebrations. Not sure when. First a nap
