Mammo

Fidgeting with my phone, sitting in the effeminately decorated waiting room, I smile at a woman walking in, after she is told, “We have a new process here. You sign yourself in at that kiosk over there so they know you are here.” Just as I did, she obediently goes to the kiosk, which I am sitting next to. I tell her, “Soon they’ll be having us do our own mammograms.” She laughs and looks like her whole body exhales with a smile.

One by one, the waiting women get called back. Others exit from the back area with a relaxed smile and schedule their appointment for next year. My son’s best friend, Sevi, group texts me and my son a security app for our phones. I gratefully respond, eager to keep the text conversation going to keep me company and distracted while I wait to be called. No husband in the waiting room for me anymore. At the kiosk, I’d updated my emergency contacts to my son and my aunt.

Finally, Cheryl calls my name and brings me back to the changing room. She then walks me to her room and asks the same questions each year. “Name, date of birth, any history of biopsies or breast surgeries?...Oh, I see your mom had breast cancer,” looking up to make eye contact and show a sad expression. “Twice,” I say. More concerned expression, “How is she now?” “Still alive and well” I respond. Back to the smile.

Cheryl asks me to remove my gown from my right arm to start, and guides me to the proper position before the mammogram machine. Like an uncoordinated Rockette I try to follow where to put which hand, which way to turn my head, lean in or out. I hold my breath when she tells me too, breathe on command, and hold again.

Four images complete, Cheryl tells me to have a seat in the secondary waiting area and wait in case the doctor requests additional images. I return to my group texts with Sevi, who is now trying to convince me to abandon Apple and go with a Windows computer. I’m so grateful for the company, but the thought of changing interfaces makes me anxious even considering it…

This waiting area holds just me and the woman I’d made smile earlier. We chat a couple minutes in our flowery cloth gowns. She shares she gets so nervous the whole day before, and gets happy to be past the first part, just waiting for the second test and then she’ll be happy all the way home no matter what traffic is like. She shares her mother had breast cancer twice. “Me too!” I say. “It doesn’t help with the anxiety here.” “No, it doesn’t”, she says.

Then Cheryl returns with an “I’m sorry” face. She says the doctor has requested additional images. I look back at my new found friend with a scared “Oh no” expression. She forces a smile, and the door closes between us.

Cheryl tells me the doctor noticed a very small area in my right breast where the tissue looks a little different than last year. “My right breast,” I think, “Okay, well that’s good because that cyst they used to watch is on the left breast, and at least if it’s the right breast and needs radiation, it’s not over my heart.” (Information learned from my best friend who feared heart damage when having radiation on her left side).

Cheryl gets out smaller devices I’d never seen before. She said she has to get very close-up because it is a very small area. She warns it will hurt more.

After completing two images, she asks me to wait there while she goes to show the doctor. She’s confident she found it. That’s probably not good news?

I pace and try to breathe slower while she is away. Such a tiny room, I pace around the machines.

Cheryl returns and says she’ll escort me to the ultrasound room and then the doctor will come talk to me. She says it’s small and the doctor wants to see it from different angles and from different types of imaging. She implies it’s not an obvious danger. I say, “So it’s not a definite suspicious looking thing yet?” Cheryl firmly says, “No”.

I sit on the table in the darkened room waiting for Jackie, the ultrasound technician. My eyes start to fill with tears, but I hold back. Racing thoughts of a painful biopsy, surgery, chemo, radiation, losing my breast, being sick, possible losing my life. My thoughts race straight to my two kids. They’re not ready yet. 23 needs more time with me and 14, well 14 is only 14. I am not ready yet. I have so many hopes for my life.

I shudder in terror at the thought of my kids losing me. I’m paying most of the bills now, and their Dad is…well, gone. He’s not been a parent to either one of them for a long time now. He’s not well, and very damaging. I can’t leave them with him, I can’t.

Holding it together, holding it together.

Jackie arrives and starts with the right breast. I can’t do the small talk. I tell her I’m freaked out. She is reassuring and says that the doctor just wants to see multiple angles and situations, and that there isn’t something firmly troubling, yet.

She carefully examines my right breast. She says she’s not the doctor but she doesn’t see anything terribly concerning, yet.

She spends even more time on my left breast, pressing hard where I remember the cyst was that had been watched for a while. She sees my tension and tells me it looks the same.

Once completed, she tells me the doctor will come soon to talk to me, and warns me that the doctor might do ultrasound herself and that if she does, it still doesn’t mean there’s something seriously wrong.

I sit up and fidget with my phone. Checking back to Sevi’s texts, but I can’t reply this time. I’m too close to crying and too far into the “What if’s?”

The doctor walks in wearing an N95 mask and says, “You’re fine.” The tears fill my eyes. She explains the tissue change she saw, and that it moves around when pressed and that there is a tiny cyst also in that area. She says again, “You’re fine. You don’t need to do anything and you can come back next year.”

I dizzily walk out of the small, dark room, disoriented by all the doors to tiny rooms to find my way out. Another technician points to the dressing area. I pause and turn back to thank Jackie for her kindness today.

Then I walk back through a haze to my dressing room. I lock the door behind me and I cry. I say “thank you” out loud and cry out loud for a minute.

I get to keep my breasts. I don’t have to fight cancer, not today. I am free to go home to my beautiful kids.

I pull myself together to make my exit. On my way out, I get to schedule my appointments for next year.

I ride the elevator down to my car, thinking, “You get to keep your breasts for another year. This is one fight you don’t have to fight right now. So what are you going to do with this year? Make it count.”