The Lump

People have been asking me how I found out I had cancer—women in particular, since getting breast cancer is collectively one of our biggest fears. Because breast cancer is not all that rare. Same with cheating husbands or botched Botox treatments—it’s scary because it’s in the realm of possibility.

Jordan and I moved to Minnesota in August of last year. I was supposed to establish care with a primary care doctor in December, but she canceled on me the day of our appointment. Because it was during the holidays and because I had little Winston keeping me exceptionally busy, I didn’t get around to making another appointment until July. My health paranoia once made me so prudent about making doctor’s appointments for myself. Then I had a baby, and all my medical prudence was refocused on him. Then I got pregnant again, and my medical attention was divided between both children, the one on the outside and the one on the inside.

So why on earth would I waste time going to a generic doctor… just because? Truth be told, the only reason I made the appointment was because I had to put down a primary care doctor on my hospital registration form for my C-Section. So, I guess I have little baby Peter to thank for getting me to the doctor!

When the doctor did a routine breast exam, she found a lump on my left breast. I wasn’t alarmed. It had been there for a while. I had felt that thing two years ago when I was pregnant with Winston. And I had two amazing OB’s tell me it was nothing to worry about. Breasts go through all kinds of changes during pregnancy as they prepare for the horrible saga that is breastfeeding. (Ugh, one of the only pros of having breast cancer is that I don’t have to go through that living hell again!) So, when the OB’s told me not to worry about the lump, I did something very unlike me—I didn’t worry about it.

(Spoiler alert, this was a new lump in the same spot… but I wouldn’t understand that until weeks later).

Anyway, my new doc said we should get some imaging done just to have it on file. Just an ultrasound. No mammogram since those are unsafe during pregnancy.

Two weeks later, I headed to the Breast Clinic at Fairview Southdale Hospital, not knowing this would soon be my home away from home for (hopefully) a very long time.

Heading into the hospital, I wasn’t nervous at all. Not at all. I even had an appointment with our new irrigation guy, Steve, scheduled for right after. That was my big concern going into the appointment was whether or not I was going to be late for my meeting with Steve. He was going to help me figure out how to water the begonias in the top-floor planter boxes on the exterior of our house. For some reason, the people who built our new construction home made it impossible to water the planters from inside the house, so I was having to spray them from the driveway using a hose on the pressure wash setting. It kind of worked, but I figured Steve would have a solution for me… This is what I was thinking about as nurse Trish was lubing up her ultrasound wand.

As she painted my boob and armpit with jelly, we made small talk. About kids of course. That’s all people ask about after you have kids. And I’m not complaining, I love it. Better than the old topic—what do you do for a living? I never liked that one because my job always fluctuated and I felt bad about that. Why wasn’t I one of those people who knew what they wanted to do with their lives? Now that I had a child, no one gave a damn about work. Ironically, I’d never worked harder in my life since having a baby.

The nurse finished the ultrasound and stepped out to go over the imaging with the radiologist, who would decide if he needed a mammogram to get a better look at anything. Surely, he wouldn’t. After all, everyone said this lump was nothing to worry about.

The nurse came back. They wanted a mammogram.

Believe it or not, Anxiety Sam (my superhero ultra ego) still wasn’t too worried. Not about the mammogram, at least. I was still worried about being on time for my appointment with Steve. The only thing I hate more than watering begonias with a power hose is being late.

So, in I went to another room across the hall, making jovial kid-focused small talk yet again with another nurse. I had both breasts smooshed like pancakes—for the first time I might add, since regular breast cancer screenings don’t start until you’re forty.  The Medical Overlords should seriously revise this standard… (I’ll have more on this topic in another post, I’m sure).

As she led me to yet another room, the nurse told me to keep my pink shirt-gown on in case any more testing was needed. I sat down at the small round table and waited for the doctor to come in. That’s when I started to get nervous. There was something about the formality of a round table that didn’t feel good. It was the kind of table at which shamed parents have to sit with a teacher when their child won’t stop biting the other kids. This table screamed “I’m in trouble.” And, surely enough, I was.

Fifteen minutes later—after hearing the doctor use words like “suspicious” and “malignant” and “as-soon-as-possible”—and after calling Jordan in tears—I was on a table getting a breast and lymph node biopsy. I couldn’t believe this was all happening. I could feel little Peter kicking inside me. Poor guy had to be along for this scary ride. I sobbed on the table while the doctor grabbed tissue samples, and the nurse grabbed me tissues. Then I got dressed and drove home in a daze.

When I got home, Jordan was there waiting for me. We hugged the biggest hug—one of the biggest hugs we’d ever shared. I cried. He consoled me. It was a horribly sad but beautiful moment.

Then the doorbell rang. Amidst the chaos of everything, I’d forgotten to cancel Steve. But low and behold I’d made it back in time for our appointment…

WHEW!