I found a
lump.
And as hard
as that may be to read, to write, it was nothing compared to the
all-encompassing truth when it was there at my fingertips, at 6:30 if it were a clock, on my left
breast. The world paused and somehow
simultaneously kept going. Because
that’s what life does: it keeps moving whether we move along with it or curse
everyone for not stilling like we did.
I know myself
well: perfectly well. So well in fact that the exact moment I felt this
incongruence, I was precisely aware that it was all wrong. And it was an
inopportune moment as well and the only thing that happened was a void in my
mind, a complete gap, an absence of pleasure and pain, a deficiency of thought
and stillness, a drought of knowing exactly what to do and having absolutely no
where to turn next. Something was wrong.
Steven felt
it too, looked at me, and promptly it was decided that I would have it looked
at. I was seen by my GP quickly, allowed
to leave school early, and carried in a cloud-like trance until, out of the
rain, I arrived at his door. I felt as
though I’d been holding my breath for days.
The appointment took less than five minutes. He didn’t want to feel it: he referred me
straight away to the breast screening unit of the local hospital. I was still feeling relatively calm until he
handed me the printed sheet that stared at me, cold, unfeeling, blatantly
spelling out what I hadn’t said to myself for all these nights: suspected
cancer type: BR1. What the fuck?
It was
Steven’s birthday. I got home, explained
that the doc didn’t even want to feel it…asked me preliminary questions that
all led to him saying, “those are all good signs”, and then told him the worst
part: the doctor said, “Now go home and don’t think about this anymore. Go on living your normal life.” My normal life? Isn’t that what you say to women who have
just been given the you-might-just-have-cancer speech? I burst into tears and crumbled at the
thought that this wasn’t just something to shrug off. But then what was it? Is this it?
Is this some sort of joke?
Waiting the six
days for the hospital appointment was agonizing: I was on edge, understandably,
and just could not get it off my mind.
The doctor told me this appointment would cover all of it: the
ultrasound, the mammogram, the biopsy if necessary. I would be there all day, it would be
difficult. It already was
difficult. Steven and I went out for
dinner on Friday night, two days before the appointment. His birthday and its celebrations were shoved
by the wayside until I could wrap my head around all this. It was pouring rain, windy, miserable, and I
was absolutely crushed by the weight of all of this. How would my mother handle it? What about Steven? Would I be sick for very long? Would I go back to Canada for care? Naturally, my mind catapulted to these
thoughts…what came next? The day before
the appointment, we had a house full of people for homemade lasagna and
garlicky salad: it does make me feel better to cook. I couldn’t bring myself to tell his family I
was actually off the next day and we were going together to this
appointment. I didn’t tell anyone.
We drove to
the hospital, were asked to take a number like at a deli, wound up waiting
until after the 11:30 appointment outside the waiting room, watching Michael
Gove explain how much the British children deserve and how education must
reform to serve their needs. See? The world just keeps moving on. I was called in, told by the nicest nurse to
undress and lie down. And I waited.
I’d been
beside an ultrasound machine before: I was quite ill as a young teenager and
had my fair share of ultrasounds on my lower abdomen as they tried to figure
out just what was wrong with my ovaries, my uterus…seems my lady parts have
been letting me down for awhile now, I couldn’t help but think. The nicest surgeon came in, asked me some
questions about the size of the lump (large marble) and when I noticed it. I’ve been told now that most people wait AGES
before they check these things out.
Months. He said it was a credit
to my body that I knew it so well. I had
done the right thing.
The
ultrasound started and finished rather rapidly.
The surgeon was pretty sure this was a rather large cyst and there were
many more scattered between both breasts.
I told him I could kiss his face.
The relief washed over me, a cross between a blanket and a wave, but it
lasted oh-so-long. He wanted to cover
all bases, however, and no, I would not have a mammogram: those are only for
women over 40. I would visit a
radiologist to get a second opinion. If
the radiologist thought it best, I would have a biopsy done.
Steven was in
the waiting room, gathering me up when I explained all that the surgeon had
just told me. We went to book the next
appointment, nearly two weeks later, and we headed for home. I could have slept for three days
straight. I could have cried for hours.
I went
yesterday to see the radiologist. The
rain was coming down in sheets, as it has been since I returned from Canada the
second time. I took the bus to the same
hospital and was there very early. I got
a coffee and thought about this ridiculous journey. Thought about just how quickly things can
change, things can be swept from under your feet, things can go from Monday to
the worst-day-of-your-life. The
radiologist was the nicest health professional thus far, and his nurse took
second place. He quickly identified the
6:30 cyst, which was what it was. He
asked if I’d like it drained. It would
give me some relief to not have to feel it there anymore. It will more than likely come back, cycle
related, but I’m to take every single abnormality just as seriously as I took
this one. He pricked me with a needle as
we watched it enter my breast, enter the cyst, and removed a lot of liquid. He asked for a second syringe. It was so disgusting and I was actually quite
amazed at just how much fluid was coming out of me. I was concerned because the fluid was not
clear, as I had been told to expect, but dark.
All of a sudden, I was back in the vortex of misery: this was bad,
right? Nope. Totally normal. It was confirmed: there was nothing at all
malignant in the fluid and I was helped up to a seated position. The nurse took so much time to make sure all
the gel was off me, that I was comfortable, that I was calm. I stumbled out, rain still falling, but
gentler now. This was over. Really over.
Roll on rest of life.
