Hold Your Breath

So I remember thinking in the shower yesterday, "Wow, I'm really surprised that the mammogram people haven't called . . . guess my gut feeling was wrong."

And yesterday afternoon, there was a call from a number that I didn't recognize and I answered it. I never answer those.

It was the mammogram people. "You need to come in again." They couldn't give a reason why and I was short with them . . . no, I can't come in tomorrow (duh, I have a life). I'll come in on Friday . . . and what is the reason for this repeat? I was told that I could call my doctor's office.

I find the phone number for the gynecologist. I hold. I am told that I have "a 7 mm mass on your right breast and asymmetrical tissue in your left breast". One should never have to hear mass in reference to their breasts. The nurse is explaining that it's my first film and that this happens all the time and that they have nothing to compare it to . . . but I'm wondering if I shouldn't have taken that offer for the next day appointment. Actually, my brain is melting in panic.

Of things about my body, my eyes and my boobs are at the top of the list. I like my boobs. I don't want new ones. And that was my panic thought for the next 24 hours until I could go to the rescheduled next day appointment, ditching work in the process. I like my boobs. I don't want new ones. There wasn't any panic about having cancer or it spreading throughout my body or dying . . . just I like my boobs . . . I don't want new ones . . .

I panicked at my mother, who was helpful until she said, "You don't really even have to worry until they send you for a digital one . . . they can't see anything on them until the digital one." Except that I HAD a digital mammogram from the get go. Oops. SM was very sympathetic and listened to all my whinyness . . . the first time I was kinda crazy in front of him.

I wore my lucky shoes and earrings in all my holes (six is luckier than five) and showed up when I was supposed to. Checking in was faster this time and the volunteer (I assume she was a volunteer, as she was way over eighty and could barely stand, let alone lead me) lead me to a different door in the Alice in Wonderland world of the Breast Care floor. I was handed a thin pale green bathrobe again and told that I already knew the drill. This time I used a locker . . . but had to pick a lucky number locker -- 264 was occupied, so I had to go with 262. Amazing how OCD I am in the middle of a losing your boobs panic.

A very smiley tech with a serious Latin accent calls me up. In the room I get to see my breasts backlighted on the wall, circles and arrows added showing concerns. Arrow to a round thing in my right breast. Circle around something that looks very much like a tail, a puppy's tail, in my left breast. Slightly different Princess Leia torture robot, same plate but instead of a clear plastic tray the size you would use for brownies, there is something the size of a petrie dish. The tech explains that this is going to be "more painful" and then there is a game sorta like Simon Says to line me up with the machine. "Put your right foot here . . . raise your arm up to the ceiling . . . now put it down on the machine . . . move your ribs to the left . . . " The whole idea is that they are getting closer and more detailed images. Once I was squished in there I was in so much pain that there was no way that I was breathing.

"Hold your breath" she says as she pushes the button, which I took as don't move, as I was already not breathing. We did this five more times and then I was walked back to the waiting room. There is relatively instant gratification, the radiologist looks at your new films right away. I nervously go back to reading "Vanity Fair" while listening to the woman across from me talk on the phone.

The same smiley tech comes to get me again and we go back to the same room and do the dance two more times. I would like to say that I was really freaked out at this point, but I was numb. I had done all I could have done, lucky locker number and all. The chips were going to fall where they may. Back in the waiting room, I continued glancing at the article on Paul Newman. The phone woman interrupted me, with the epiphany that we were ALL back for re-examination. It was an interesting descent . . . "wait, this is a different waiting room . . . are you here for a re-check? . . . are you? . . . hey, we're all here for the same thing? . . . how many times have you been back?" Finally, an older woman on oxygen took her under her wing, telling her stories of her many lumpectomies and biopsies. Not really comforting at all, but something to talk about.

They had taken the oxygen lady back and the panicky woman was back on the phone when they called me up again. Without much fanfare, I was given a piece of paper and told to come back in three years, when I'm 40. The checked box on the paper says pretty much the same thing. So I put on my clothes and went back to work. No tickertape. No balloons.

Since then I have had several "Life is too short for this crap cause I almost didn't have boobs" moments, which might be a good way to live, maybe. And quite frankly, I didn't really realize that I was that attached to them.