Biopsy – Boob Gone Rogue

September 18 Monday… D Day?

My alarm goes off at 6:20 am. I think I should feel exhausted. I have not slept a full night since last Thursday when that word was said that feeds the anxiety still curled in my gut, waiting for me to let it loose. It’s getting harder to control. I was awake for several hours in the middle of the night, falling back to sleep sometime after 4 am. I was awake before my alarm went off at 6:20 am. I lay there ignoring the alarm and check The Lump. FUCK! It’s still there. Damn it. I get up and get ready for work, packing my lunch. I have an industry Expo in town that I need to get to try to do some networking. We need more business. But I want to get to the office first and catch up on all I missed on Thursday and Friday.

I am trying not to think about The Call. The call that will schedule us to come back for the results. The call that will change the rest of my life. The anxiety pushes from its little corner; I push back. My boob already hurts. I can now take more than Tylenol. Advil is my next choice. I can take 3 extra strength Advil, which will get me through the day. I work, get through emails, answer questions, help with billing issues, and check all pending to make sure everything looks right and there are no anomalies.

Boss arrives, we talk, review some things, asked when I’m going to the EXPO. I told him I would finish up some rate requests, review some things, eat my lunch, and head over there. Asked about The Call. Not yet, as I shake my head, my cell phone rings. Not a number I recognize, but it originated in the city of the Breast Diagnostic Center. I hold up my finger to pause my boss for a second and answer. It’s Evelyn from the BDC. They will not receive the biopsy results in time to schedule a follow-up that day, but they will be in for a first-thing appointment on Tuesday. “9 am, yes, that works, we will be there.” Show the pink slip or tell the front desk you are there to see Evelyn. They will take it from there. The anxiety perks up, and it starts to unfurl, ready to go, but I am not ready for that yet. I close my eyes, take a deep cleansing breath, and imagine good, purifying energies coming in, goldish, with a tinge of pink, entering my lungs, spreading through my bloodstream, fortifying my body, adding invisible armor, my protection from bad, and slowly exhaling. My boss watches all this, and as I turn back to him, he says, “Tomorrow”, and I nod. “OK. Let me know how it goes.”

“I will.”

“Will you go back to the EXPO tomorrow?”

“Depends on what I find there today.”

“OK. Then Wednesday, you have the all-day Symposium on the Software we use, correct?”

“Yes, I still plan on going to that. I think there are tools we’re not using effectively. This is a free way to find out what I am missing.”

“Good, we will see you back here for sure on Thursday.”

“Yup.” And with that, I went back to work.

I like my boss. I really like my boss. I love what I do. There are times when I don’t like my boss. We have different management styles, and he can be overbearing at times. He is quick to anger and VENTS. But he is also quick to calm down. When he is frustrated or angry, he will not listen. There is no talking to him. You cannot explain anything. You just take the wrath, do what you can to fix the situation that started his frustration, and then present the solution you wanted to present earlier after everything is fixed.

He frustrates me to no end at times. He makes me stretch and grow and learn new things, even when I don’t want to. He is fair. He believes that in a good days pay for hard work. He expects hard work. He is so much like my husband. Cut and dry. A wry sense of humor. He’s a boob man. I know this; he knows this. He says things he shouldn’t say, but they are the same things I think or would say. HR rolls her eyes at us all the time. It feels like we are compatriots fighting the same fight.

He makes me laugh almost as much as my husband. I respect him. When he mentions my boobs about whatever we may be dealing with, it is usually funny, makes me laugh, and then I tell him I own his ass. He laughs and agrees. As angry as he can make me, and I am sure as hell, I can press all his buttons and piss him off, too, I don’t think I would find a better place to work than where I am now.

I was very happy for almost 20 years to work for a major corporation. Then they moved all the jobs I liked to Arizona. And not to a nice place like Prescott or Flagstaff. I couldn’t do it. I could not move with the jobs. So, after almost 20 years with this company, I took the layoff. Sometimes I think of my boss as almost a second father. He is a good man.

Anyway, it took me a little longer than I anticipated to go over everything, get emails caught up, and answer all the questions. I went and retrieved my salad from the frig and ate at my desk as I put finishing touches on things, then packed all my gear up and headed to the EXPO. I walk in, and of course, I see people I know everywhere. I’ve been in this industry for so long, and I happen to be the current president of one of the non-profit organizations in our industry, so I have had the great opportunity to meet many wonderful people.

I greet those I know, we chat, promise to call and get together, the normal stuff. Then I will move on to see if there are any opportunities to grow our business here. I stop at various booths, introduce myself, chat, swap stories, trade business cards, get goodies, the little marketing gimmicks everyone buys to hand out at EXPOs. As I turn a corner and come to one booth, I recognize an old colleague. The previous corporation I worked for has gone through many changes, including a purchase by another company. Many of my previous co-workers throughout the country have left and gone on to other adventures. The previous COO and the President of the Americas have started a new company based in Arizona with the primary footprint of the services and goods they offer in my neck of the woods. As they have been expanding their footprint and providing offerings in other markets, they keep hiring more and more people to help them. One of my previous bosses, who I loved working for, also works for this new company. Here was yet another face from my past, becoming my present once again. It was good to see him.

Once I was done grooming the EXPO, with very little to show for my efforts, but it was nice to have been able to get out there and talk to people I don’t get the chance to speak with very often, I called it a day and headed home. Home, where we were still in denial about the word that had been spoken that directly relates to the C word. I was barely in the car before I unhooked my bra. I am still uncomfortable wearing it. Thank God for Advil. Any maybe tonight I will drink the rest of the bubbly I opened last Tuesday. Maybe this will help me sleep through the night.

We watch TV, I go through email again, and I drink the last of the champagne. The anxiety is getting hard. It has been this soft ethereal thing curled into a corner of my gut this whole week. Now, it’s becoming hard, edgy, cutting, and heavy. How am I ever going to sleep tonight? I didn’t tell my husband that my primary care physician left me a voicemail earlier when my phone was snugged away in my purse. She’s received information from the BDC about the biopsy, if there is anything she can do, I am to call her. I am afraid to call her; I don’t want to know what she knows.

Life is denial for now

Thursday September 14 – Biopsy Day

Thursday is here way too quickly. I am dressed and ready to go, the anxiety just a small curl in my gut. I sign in at the Breast Diagnostic and Care Center, go through the form signing, and wait. I am called back. I leave my purse and water bottle with my husband in the waiting room and am taken back to the room where the procedure will occur.

The Technician walks me through a bunch of forms and confirmations of name spelling and items labeled correctly that need to be signed or confirmed and goes over the procedure once again with me. I will change into a gown after disrobing from the waist up. I will be laid down on the procedure bed with my right breast exposed. They will cover me up with towels except for the area of my breast they need to work on. They will wash my breast with betadine solution to ensure a sterile field. Then Lidocaine will be administered to completely numb the area. At this point, the ultrasound technician will provide a field of vision for the doctor to proceed with the biopsy. I will feel pressure but no pain. If there is any pain, I am to let them know so they can administer more Lidocaine.

A small tube will be inserted into my breast right up to The Lump. A tool will be inserted through this tube to take 4 to 6 samples of The Lump, which will be sent to pathology for analysis. Once that is done, the doctor will place a small clip in the middle of The Lump as a marker should we have to go back and address additional issues. Once that is done and the tube removed, the technician will then place firm pressure on my breast to stop the bleeding. This will take anywhere from ten to twenty minutes. After the bleeding has stopped and steri-strips are applied, I will then have a mammogram done to ensure the marker can be seen in imaging. Once I am cleared from that, I am to keep ice on my boob for a minimum of 6 hours, no lifting anything heavier than a TV Remote, my cell phone, an iPad, or my Kindle until Friday afternoon.

OK, I’m ready. All the forms have been signed, i’s dotted, and t’s crossed. Disrobe and put on the gown, opening to the front. Done. Lay down on the bed, right arm out of the gown, boob bared to the world. A wedge is placed under my right side to elevate my boob to the doctor, and my right arm is raised above my head. I am tilted to the left. Tech starts draping me with blue surgical towels. The doctor comes in and introduces herself. She tells me not to worry; there are great new medicines out now that will shrink this tumor down before surgery. Wait, what? Tumor? Shrink? Surgery? No, no, no, this is benign; it’s a fatty tumor at worst. That little curl of anxiety in my gut starts getting a little bigger.

The doctor keeps talking, and she’s asking me about any history in the family; no, not that I am aware of… an Aunt passed earlier this year from Melanoma, but she was a teen in the ’60s and sunbathed with baby oil. Others in the family are married in their kids, but I know nothing in my direct bloodline. I did have thyroid cancer almost 20 years ago. Oh, OK. Surgery? Yes, and then ablation with the isotope. Oh, good. Yes, it made me sick. Lucky me, half of one percent gets sick from it. Ohhhhh and her demeanor changes slightly. Not so reassuring, more, that is a little troubling. Shit, shit, shit… and the curl of anxiety in my gut starts to tighten.

She walks me through briefly what’s going to happen again. I am nodding my understanding, concentrating on keeping my breathing even. The technician and the doctor keep up a cheery banter as the doctor starts washing my breast with the betadine. Swipe, swipe, scrub, wipe, repeat. The technician calls for an aide to help ferry pieces around me, like the used gauze pads from the betadine wash and the mini scrub brush used in the first washing.

Again, my right side is slightly elevated by a wedge to make my breast the highest point. My right arm is extended over my head, and I am tilted to the left because of the wedge. As they start, I close my eyes and meditate to keep my parasympathetic nervous system calm. Shit, in all the bustle, I forgot to tell them. It’s OK, there is no IV, this is a simple procedure, like going to the dentist. Drown them out. I’m at the beach, I can hear the waves, take a deep even breath, in, one, two, three, pause, out, one two, three.

“There will be a little poke and a slight sting here for a second as we start administering the Lidocaine.” Breathe, one, two, three, slowly, pause, out, one, two, three. The ocean is calm, there is a slight breeze, you can smell the salt in the air. There is pressure on my breast; I feel crowded even though my eyes are closed. Breathe, inhale, slowly, one, two, three, pause, exhale, slowly, one, two, three. There is lots of external activity around me, pressure, and more pressure. Beach, sand, warm, breeze, salt, sun on my skin, gentle wave on my toes, breathe, one, two, three, pause, out, one, two, three.

The doctor says the tool I am using will make two clicks and then a much louder click as I take the samples. She demonstrates the tool’s sound by my right ear.

No, no, not now. Breathe in, slowly; you can do this, beach, sand, breeze, sun, hear the surf, feel the wet sand, feel the breeze, smell the salt, in, one, two, three, shit, shit, shit, shit, no, breathe! My face is cold, shit, breathe, sand, slow in one, water, two, breeze, three, sun, the cold, clammy sweat on the back of my neck, slowly exhale, one, oh god, the queasiness, two, I have to say something, they are in my boob, and I can’t move, I can’t throw up! I can’t move; I need to move, tell them, tell them.

“Um, excuse me, but my BP is dropping; I need my feet raised up, please.” The technician is on the ball, and while holding the ultrasound wand steady, she raises the feet of the exam bed I am on to elevate them. She also told the aide to get ice packs on my forehead and the back of my neck. The doctor asks me if this happens all the time. It’s difficult for me to answer as I am still concentrating on trying to control this reaction so I don’t throw up. Doctor keeps working as I answer “yes, kind of”. At first, she says it’s just my nerves and then asks if I have a problem with needles. Again, I know what I want to say, but can’t get the words out, so just say “yes”. She can tell I am struggling to try to control this reaction, and answering her has taken my concentration off my breathing, and I am now starting to hyperventilate. This has all happened in under 30 seconds. The doctor is now talking to me, helping me slow my breathing down calmly, reassuring me that it’s OK, and it’s good that you recognized what was happening. That’s it. Slow your breath in evenly. It’s good. Now slowly exhale; you’re doing good. She continues working and is done before I can even say I feel the effects of my BP drop start to wane. I hear the tech comment that may face is still ashen, I sense the doctor move away for a brief moment, there is a lot of pressure on my right boob, but no feeling. Then the doctor is back; she is the one holding pressure on my breast, and the tech is now wiping the cold sweat from my face. I am done. Breathe, that a girl, slow even breath in and out.

I can feel the clamminess starting to recede. Tech replaced the ice on the back of my neck with a fresh ice pack. I hadn’t realized it felt so warm until the fresh pack was placed there. The doctor remains holding the pressure on my boob. Aid asks if she wants her to take over, doctor tells her no, she’s got this, clear the trash. I feel the aftereffects start to come on, the shakiness, the flush of warmth moving out to my extremities.

The technician then says she sees the color starting to come back to my face. Minutes have passed at this point. I am starting to feel normal. I apologize, I tell them my BP is on the low side of normal, how I didn’t think to warn them, and how sound is my biggest trigger, but yes I do have problems with needles, but can usually control that. Now, the only time I really have this issue is when I get a new person who doesn’t believe me when I tell them how to start an IV on me or a phlebotomist who doesn’t believe me when I tell them where the blood comes out.

I was reassured that it was OK, and they were very glad that I could tell them what I needed and that I recognized what was happening. The doctor asks me if I am OK now. Yes, I just need some time to get over the shakiness. She asks me if I would like water or juice. “Yes, water would be lovely right now, please.” She looks at me and says, no, I think you need juice. Can you handle juice? I think so. Tell us if you think it will make it worse for you. No, I can do the juice; I just need to sip it. OK, let’s get you some juice then. The aid is sent to get me juice, the tech is still holding pressure on my boob. The doctor asks the tech if everything is under control and if she needs her to remain. Tech says, no, we have it from here. I am told to take as much time as I need to recover.

Before the doctor left, she told me that the biopsy results should come back by Monday, they would call me to schedule an appointment to review the results, and an Oncologist would be there at that appointment to explain everything. That didn’t sink in at first.

The first thing that went through my mind at that point was that I was more used to being ignored, especially when I provided a warning of what could happen. Most of the time, I am ignored or told they can do this without causing an issue. When I do have the problem of the BP dropping suddenly like that, I’m used to being treated like an anomaly at best, or it’s my fault at worst. To have a team so readily come to my aid while they continued to do the job that was at hand and treat me so kindly was so refreshing. If I could have stood up at that point, I would have hugged each and every one of them for making me feel like it was OK to have this issue with my blood pressure.

As I laid there with an ice pack on my forehead, an icepack on the back of my neck, and the tech still applying pressure to my boob and the tremors working their way through my body after the doctor left the room, her parting words started to sink in, and that is when that slightly bigger, tight curl of anxiety started to take over my whole torso.

The aid returned to the room with a juice box, and the tech kept checking to see if the bleeding had stopped. Finally, the tech said the bleeding had slowed enough that the steri-strips could be applied. As I slowly sipped juice and moved the ice packs around to aid in recovery from the BP drop, I was asked if I wanted my husband with me. Before I could answer, the tech said, yes, that would be a good idea. I started to tell her what he looked like, but she said, I remember where you were sitting, I’ll be right back.

I closed my eyes and willed the anxiety back into a little ball; it was not working. I couldn’t grab enough of its wispy edges to gather it into a compact area again. I took another sip of juice, said a silent prayer to my guardian angels, and then my husband was there. I just needed him to touch me, to give me an anchor. I knew with an anchor, I could stretch myself further to gather in the ever-spreading anxiety. It was like thick tendrils of grayish fog trying to roll its way through my body, to surround me and fill the entire room. That word, Oncologist, was food for that fog of anxiety, like a triple hit of sugar to a toddler, making it spin out of control.

He held my hand as I lay there, now with an ice pack under my neck and one on my breast, sipping juice from a tiny juice box. I looked at him and said, “It’s cancer”. He willed that it wasn’t, denied that it could be, we didn’t know yet. It could still be nothing. As he held my hand, I saw in his eyes that he was going to continue to deny this, could not think of this until we had no choice. I had my anchor; he would be there with me through all this. I slowly reeled that monster of anxiety back into a ball and tucked it away. It was still there, not gone, ready to pounce at the slightest release of control. I could stand up now. Still a little shaky, they asked if I wanted some crackers. No, no food. Just the juice for now. Off for the mammogram to ensure the marker could be seen. Two quick images: Yes, there it is. I went back to the original room to get dressed, go home, and wait.

Ice pack into the sacrificial bra, and then tenderly place my right boob into the already filled cup and gingerly move the strap up to hold it all in place. Not too bad. Loose sweater over the top of it, and away we go with my extra-large right boob, walking out hand in hand with the best man I know, being my anchor. I had stocked up on frozen peas as they make some of the best ice packs. I had a blue surgery towel to use as the insulator, and with instructions to change the ice every 30 minutes, I sat on the couch, prepared to binge-watch something.

As feeling slowly came back to my breast, the discomfort set in. The sacrificial bra was tight and painful, so I gave up using the bra to hold the ice to my now bruised and bloody boob to just holding it myself. Trying not to think about what would happen next week. Ignoring the word spoken back at the Breast Diagnostic Center (that sounds like a store where you go pick out the ones you want, or buy the tools to renovate your breasts…). That gray fog of anxiety, sitting curled in my gut, just waiting for its chance to take over.

I was allowed to take Tylenol for discomfort, and I did do so regularly from the time we left the Breast Center to ensure I stayed on top of any pain. We didn’t talk about The Lump, the biopsy, or the word that fed the anxiety. This was nothing. It was Jon Snow – “You know nothing”. (I read the books but have not watched the series.) We went to bed; it was awkward with my now slightly swollen and sore right boob.

Life is frozen peas ice packs

Tuesday September 12 – Diagnostics

I go for the diagnostic exams. Feeling a little concerned, but this is nothing. Just a little inconvenience, First is the mammogram. It wasn’t the little localized paddles, it was the normal paddles, and they didn’t even squish me that hard. It did hurt, but not nearly as much as I thought it would. I did have one tear slip out and the poor tech was so sorry she was hurting me. I felt bad as I think the tear was more from the anxiety than anything else. Diagnostic mammograms were really a breeze compared to what I imagined. The technician excused herself to insure the radiologists had what they wanted on the images taken and then she was back hustling me over to wait for ultrasound. I was a little alarmed at how quick she seemed to want to get the images to the radiologist, and she wouldn’t let me see the scans. I knew if I really wanted to I could have pushed to see the scan, as it is my right, but I didn’t want to go there. Besides, this is nothing, it’s a cyst.

I was taken in for the ultrasound. The technician and I totally hit it off. Trading stories while she saved images of The Lump. Next thing I know, she too is exiting the room hurriedly, to make sure the radiologist is OK with the images secured. Now I’m starting to really feel like this may not be something so easy. Next thing I know the radiologist steps into the exam room with the technician, and explains to me that The Lump is not a cyst and we need to do a biopsy so we know what we’re dealing with.

Before I can even process this news, the tech has me up and going over pages and pages of paperwork, and I’ve been scheduled for a biopsy on Thursday morning at 9:45. I will not be able to work that day, as once the biopsy is done I will have to ice my boob for at least 6 hours. Boobs bleed a lot. Can easily reopen the wound, and my head is spinning. This is not happening.

I managed to get a text off to my cousin between the announcement by the radiologist and the Tech telling me what will happen, when, how and what I need to do to prepare. Text to cousin – “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!!!!!!! it’s not a cyst. Biopsy is next.” Response “Oh Jesus!”

Now my world is starting to spin. They are rushing this, is this is cancer? How the fuck did I get cancer in my fucking right boob!! It can’t be cancer. It’s benign. Breathe, slow, count to three, exhale, count to three. Again, count to four, exhale, one, two, three, four. I am out in the parking lot, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Call my husband who is still driving from Boise to Vegas. Don’t hyperventilate. Husband says don’t jump to conclusions. It could still be anything. In my gut, I know its cancer. The Lump – it’s trying to kill me, I just know it.

I try to remain calm that afternoon as I sort through my feelings. My dad and stepmom are arriving Friday to celebrate her birthday at the Disneyland Parks. We’re supposed to meet them for dinner Friday night, and meet them again on Saturday at the park, with dinner again already planned and reservations secured at the Blue Bayou. My cousins husband is turning 50 this weekend, she is throwing him a surprise party. We had already committed to my parents for Disneyland, we would not be heading up to the bay area for his party. But my mom has flown in from South Carolina to spend a few days with friends from her old Temple in Northern California and finish it off with the surprise party. I can’t make my cousin keep my secrets, not a secret like this, not one so big, not one that is now scaring the shit out of me. I’m going to have to tell my mom at least. And the kids. Husband arrives in Las Vegas and we talk a bit. It’s going to be OK, this is nothing. Life is good.

I take a deep breath and call my mom. Explain what has happened, and tell her about the biopsy. I text my cousin, tell her I have told my mom, she doesn’t have to keep the secret. She texts back she’d told her mom too, now. I should be expecting a call from my aunt. I’ve told all the kids. Including the oldest son, who no longer talks to us because we’re the root of all evil in his life. That is another story that for another place and time. Despite his issues with us, he is still loved. I call him and leave him a message. Everyone that needs to know, knows.

My aunt calls me. Reassured me this is nothing. Both her and my mother (her sister) had to go back for additional screenings because of dense breast tissue creating shadows in their mammograms. Both about the same age I am now. Well, yes Auntie – I’ve had to do that as well a few years back. I asked her if she could feel a lump when this happened to her. No, oh, well, yeah, it’s nothing. We left it at that, and I could feel the tiny seeds of fear starting to sprout roots in my gut.

I have made arrangements at work to be off Thursday and Friday to deal with the biopsy and all the steps I have to take to insure I don’t reopen the wound and have it bleed all over the place. My anxiety factor has now been elevated.

Life is whispered secrets of fear