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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.