No. 03: Strictly Precautionary
So the mammogram that was turned into a second—a magnified mammogram or a sonogram. When I heard "suspicious area found," it became hard to follow. I did hear they found a problem in both breasts and "we want to see more." When I did not hear from anyone in what I thought was a 24-hour period, I went through the portal to my regular doc.
To the credit of my regular physician, she emailed me through the portal and reiterated, "I made the referral, and please be assured this is strictly precautionary."
They did call within the hour, and the appointment was made. And so I returned a few days later.
Now, when you go to the second, "Strictly precautionary mammogram," you realize more of the surroundings. Your senses are on overdrive. As I sat there and watched, I decided the waiting room of any breast cancer center was the saddest place on earth. Women sat there pretending to read their phones; however, if you looked closer, you see the red-rimmed eyes and, although they are staring at their phones "reading," no one is swiping. No telltale finger movement.
The first woman I noticed sat across from me, and she did just that. She stared at her phone like she was reading, but made no movement. As each nurse came out from the inner sanctum ready to call the next name, she looked up with those large red-rimmed eyes—tentative—and I noticed her shaking hand. OK, true confession, I too looked up, although no red-rimmed eyes or shaking hands, waiting for my fateful name. When her name was finally called, she fumbled around for her purse and papers, dropping her phone. The nurse, in a quiet voice and bending to help, told her, "No rush, take your time, all is well." The two left the room.
Next came the woman coming from the inner sanctum. Fairly young—at least younger than me, maybe in her 40s, but I am guessing—in a wheelchair, pushed by a nurse. This woman had tears streaming down her face, which she tried to conceal behind a big tote bag, wiping her eyes. Her friend, who must have been behind me, came rushing around my chair and immediately knelt in front of her. The nurse, woman, and friend whispered a short conversation before I distinctly heard, "I will go get the car." The nurse nodded, and her friend said a quiet, "Thank you." The three left.
The third woman to come out was leaning on two nurses. I heard her say, "I do not have a ride here, I did not think I needed one. I need to make a call, and my phone is almost dead." She was led to a chair. The two nurses sat on either side. The woman requested a Kleenex, and one nurse went to retrieve one and, I assume, make the needed call. But before I could see how this play turned out, it was then my name was called.
As we went down the corridor, I was ready to turn into the all too familiar area from years of mammograms. "Oh, we are not going this way; we have another area you will be going to." I was taken down to the farthest corridor, one with offices on one side, the other with smaller changing rooms, between which had another smaller waiting room.
After the perfunctory "Take off everything from the waist up and gown open to the front. Then come to the waiting room, and I will come to get you" message, she left. I did as I was told and went to sit in the second waiting room.
SIDE NOTE: I have been in numerous waiting rooms now between a new hip and breast cancer. I have one question: "Why on these television monitors do they always play either the Weather Channel or Home and Garden Network?"
As I watched a couple select the new kitchen material for the house, the tech came to retrieve me.
We went into a smaller room. This room was a challenge because between the "magnified mammogram machine," the protective glassed computer area, a chair and table with cleaning supplies, plus the tech and the tech in training (TIT!), we had a small dance together as we maneuvered around to get the breast at the direct angle and position they wanted. I was hit in the nose a few times, met with many apologies, but the hit on the nose really does not compare to the breast being squished and pulled as we played a little version of musical chairs as we tried to get my breast placed. I was at the disadvantage as I could not move too much.
As the tech was doing double duty—training and me—she did a great job. We even had a few laughs. I even offered to help in the future, as I felt trained as well.
Both sides done, I was instructed to return to the room, dress, and go to the waiting room. The radiologist would read the magnified mammogram right away. I did as I was told.
Within minutes of returning to the smaller waiting room, I was escorted to the office of the radiologist. Sitting in front of a computer with two large monitors, featuring the enlarged version of my breasts, the radiologist went straight to business.
"We do not like what we see—here and here," she said, pointing to various areas on both right and left monitors. I stared. I think she offered more explanation, but to the life of me, I cannot remember what she said. Except her last words: "We want to do a biopsy and learn more. Please do not worry; 80% of the time, it is nothing to worry about. We want to get this as soon as possible, though. So, we will look at the calendar and schedule it now."
Hmm, no "they will call you in 24 hours"; we are scheduling it now. And 80% vs. 20%—I like those odds. The nurse escorted me to the waiting room. When she returned a few minutes later, she said, "Depending on your schedule, we can do the biopsy in two weeks on a Friday, but you will have to go to another satellite hospital 45 minutes away, or you can wait till Monday and return to ours, 5 minutes away." What's a weekend anyway, not to mention convenience. So I opted for the Monday close to home. Which, by the way, was April Fool's Day.
Appointment made, the nurse returned to walk me to the door. We got to the T intersection—one way you can leave through the waiting room. The other was the "back way," the route established when Covid protocols were in place. I opted for the latter, not because I was scared, but it was familiar to me. The nurse, however, took it that I wanted to escape. Placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, she quietly said, "Everything will be alright, I know it will, and remember, 80-20."
Good odds. And so the next step was in play—The Biopsy.
AGAIN—Ladies, get that mammogram. Early detection does save lives.