I received the call on Friday afternoon. I’m fortunate on occasion, when I need to concentrate or write and can’t seem to get it done in the office, to have the luxury and trust of my employer to work at home. I don’t do it often since even though I’m confident my employer trusts me, I still feel somehow that they might suspect I am tanning on the deck versus tending to my business responsibilities (of course my pasty white skin is a solid indication this isn’t the case).
On that Friday afternoon, the caller-ID indicated that the center where I had my mammogram was calling. We’ve had some trouble getting my images sent over from the lab where I had my baseline several years ago in another city, and I assume it’s an update on that process. But that is not the case. A nice woman on the other end of the line tells me there is something not quite right with the recent images I had taken, and they would like to schedule me for another set and an ultrasound. Expect about a two-hour experience.
Scheduling was more complicated, because for this mammogram, the radiologist needed to be present. We agreed on a date that was about three weeks into the future. I hung up the phone, swallowed hard, and the imagination began to run. Work productivity plummeted as a quiet shock set in.
Like many parents, I have a picture of my children as wallpaper on my computer. It helps me to feel connection during the workday. Seated at my desk this afternoon and looking into their eyes twinkling back from my screen, my first thought was as you would guess, will I see them grow up? Being old enough now to have personally experienced the tragedies of young parents fighting and losing their battles with cancer, this story is not a foreign to me. A former colleague of mine went through this process and invited the Detroit News to document her battle in Saying Goodbye. The week-long series was published just after her death in May 2006. Each morning that week, I stopped and bought the paper, closed my office door, turned my back to the window, read the beautiful story, and sobbed uncontrollably. To this day, I cannot go back to the archive to read it again. It is hopeful and inspiring, but too close.
The weekend after the Friday phone call was a tough one. I would find myself playing with the kids but also stepping back and watching them from afar as if I was a spectator at an event. Tears were ever close as I soaked up the moments with them trying to fully embrace their personalities and understand who they would be as they grew up. Then I would shake myself from the spectator role, come back to the present and assure myself that whatever the diagnosis, I was going fight and, and moreover, I would win.
Work and home life was thankfully busy for the next two weeks. And as I shared my Friday phone call with a number of colleagues, so many of them had had mammograms where the final outcome was negative, that I began to feel more confident. The dark cloud over my head thinned a bit.
The third week of waiting was a scheduled family vacation. I had some concern about getting through it, since I would be taken out of my daily routines and demands that enabled me to successfully put the thoughts of cancer in a different compartment in my head. But, the chaos of keeping up with two busy, young boys tended to keep those thoughts at bay – except when I would catch glimpses of them playing with Doug in the sand or him fixing a broken toy or tending to scraped knees. He’s a great dad, and whatever happened, I knew he could take care of them.
To the kids, Tuesday, September 9th, 2008, seemed like any weekday. The morning was filled with preparing them for daycare in our normal routine (See my October 8th post, “It’s the Mornings I’ll Miss the Most). Doug & I were perhaps a bit quieter as we dressed the kids, knowing that our lives might change significantly in just a few hours.
The mammography center is about a pleasant a place as it can be. The staff there are welcoming and attentive. The receptionist checked me in and gave me my chart to provide to the lab technician once I was called in. I was quite convinced that this was going to be a negative test – my colleagues and friends had thankfully, built up my confidence. Doug & I took a seat in the waiting area. I opened my chart.
It was quite clear. There was a questionable mass in my left breast. I was scheduled for further images and a biopsy using ultrasound. My heart sank.
Shortly thereafter, the lab technician called me into the prep waiting area. I was given a locker to store my clothes and had a seat with about six to eight other women. Tuesday’s appointments are for not for standard, annual screenings – these women had all received the same phone call. They were here because today the radiologist would soon be determining the course of their lives.
As I scanned the room, I noticed that all the women in my appointment group were at least 20 years my senior. Some had caregivers and daughters with them. My thoughts were interrupted by the technician who called me back to give me an update and let me know my wait time would be longer because the radiologist was studying my images again. My return to the prep area waiting room made me quite noticeable to all the women still there.
I’ll always remember the look in their eyes. They said nothing and in the minutes that followed, tried to steal glimpses of me without me noticing. They too noticed our age difference. I could see them mentally calculating how old my children would be. Their children were grown and they had the joy of experiencing that. Mine very likely were not, and I could read the sympathy in their eyes without them speaking a word. When the technician called me back for the final time, their eyes followed me to the door. I could feel their well wishes as if we had somehow, without a word, bonded and understood each other completely.
The news for me in that next hour was as good as it could get. The mass in the image was in fact, a lymph node that had descended into view. There was no longer a suspicion of cancer and no need for a biopsy. Like external parts of my body, gravity was having an impact on me internally too – everything seems to be falling. My recommended course of action was another standard screening in a year. I dressed quickly, headed to the waiting room, and hugged my husband. I don’t remember much more about the exit from the center.
Days later, I would come to wonder about the women I sat with. Statistics suggest that several of them in that room did not get to experience relief as I did. I wonder and send silent prayers their way. The day of the phone call and the three weeks leading up to the appointment have had impact. The experience serves as a reminder that the latest mess in the house or the latest issue at work, in the scheme of things, isn’t really that big of a deal. I am trying to enjoy the moments more – with the kids, with family, and with friends. Due to our schedules, we may not be able to increase the number of moments, but we can increase our enjoyment of them. Doug & I always talk about his sister who left us at age 39, “Aunt Debbie,” looking down on us and reminding us of the important things (and playing some pranks also). We got the message Deb, and thank you for the reminder call.
As a survivor that was diagnosed at age 38 I just wanted to let you know that this post was amazingly insightful. Keep up your follow up appointments and all should be well.