Lump

If things couldn't get worse in my otherwise dreary life, Sunday night I found a small lump in my breast right above my heart, right where the center of my hand lands when I say the Pledge of Allegiance.  I was putting my my pajamas when my hand passed over a lump.  I spent the next ten minutes rooting around trying to find it again.  (Spoiler: Everything is fine.  Nerves are a bit shot, but otherwise okay.)  I was at a health fair years ago where I acquired a little sample of silicon with a plastic lump inside.  It is suppose to help woman learn what to look for during a self-examination.  My lump was like the sample.  I was not pleased.

Monday, I called my regular doctor to take a look.  I had an appointment for Tuesday.  He felt the lump too, and then I was on the fast track to the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.  I called the Hutch this morning and was seen in the afternoon.  The good news is that this moved so fast that I didn't have to spend a lot of time worrying.  I feel bad for women who live in remote areas who might have to wait a while to get treatment.  For a woman with a lump in her breast, I am fortunate.

When I was told this lump needed further review, my first thoughts were that I might not see the Boy go to college and see The Big E get married.  When we were shopping for a new dishwasher a few weeks ago, The Big E had fun looking at fancy refrigerators.  She got such a kick out of these giant appliances that can hold 28 bags of groceries, have three doors and an installed Soda Stream.  I told her I'd get her one for her wedding or when she bought her first place, whichever came first.  Here I am imagining my own death, and I am thinking of appliances.  I would miss buying her a fridge.  I thought about telling my dad.  Or not telling him.  That would be the last thing he needed after a son with schizophrenia and a wife with Alzheimer's.

While I didn't know if I had cancer, I was for a short while in the "need to rule cancer out" category.   I was at was at a picnic on Tuesday night for my husband's job, which was surprisingly a pleasant distraction.  I thought I would burst into tears at any moment, but I was able to put on a smiley face and socialize.*  I didn't want to tell anyone, as I had no idea what to expect.  I couldn't keep my mind totally off the topic.  I kept looking at other women's breasts and thinking "She is lucky her breasts are healthy and don't have cancer," and "Her breasts won't kill her."  I had never thoughts like like that before.  Aside from the stillbirth and a miscarriage--which are not minor events -- my body had never failed me before.

In the past two days, I had several medical professionals and techs manhandle my breasts, which is a small price to pay if you don't want an untimely death.  The first doc seemed a bit nervous, worried that I would be uncomfortable exposing myself.  Little did he know that half of the people in North America have seen my tits years ago while I was nursing The Big E and The Boy.  I was one of those open breast feeders who would feed my baby anywhere, anytime: airplanes, restaurants, parks, etc.  (I've read on the internet that recently there have been a few incidents where nursing mothers have been abused in public, which, of course, is wrong.  I was fortunate enough never to have been harassed, but then I was probably intimidating like a mother lion.  I am shocked that people would have the gall to say something rude to a mother who is tending to an infant.  Aren't mother of babies sacred?  What are these people going to do when they are done harassing moms?  Go yell at an old lady that she isn't crossing the street fast enough?)

Back to me and my cancer scare.  The breast cancer is the main killer of women between the ages of 35 and 55.  After that, heart disease and lung cancer start to take over.  (At one point in college I had considered becoming an actuary.)  The good news is that 80% of women with breast cancer in this age range survive.  The bad news is that the cure is brutal.  Months of chemotherapy sounds like a nightmare.  While the chances of survival are high, I still wouldn't put a gun to my head that had five chambers and one bullet.  Not many people would.

I had tried calling the Hutch yesterday afternoon for an appointment, but I was put on hold.  I set my alarm clock for seven a.m. to call this morning, figuring the caller queue would be short.  I was right.  The scheduler asked if I had ever had a mammogram before, anywhere.

"No," I said.  I was embarrassed and ashamed.  I have several friends who have had breast cancer.  I know better.

"I wanted to check for a baseline scan," he said.  I had never thought of that: baseline.  The docs would not have a normal mammogram of mine to compare to today's.  Note to self: that is reason alone to get an annual check-up.

In my normal way of reacting to things, I intellectualized the situation.   In shower, I was thinking that if I were to undergo chemotherapy and my hair fell out, then I wouldn't need to shave my armpits.  That line of bullshit thinking listed three minutes.  The intellectual side of my brain wasn't holding up too well against my heart.  Prior to having the mammogram scheduled, I was afraid to touch the lump again, check it out, see if it was still there.  I was afraid to agitate it, make it angry.  I wanted to leave it alone, perhaps so it could sleep.  I didn't want to waken the dragon.  This morning, though, I went to the Pledge of Allegiance zone and found it.  I was hoping it was gone or I had imagined it.  No.

Given the complexity of Jack and my relationship over the past two months, I had decided I didn't want him to go with me for the diagnosis.  He insisted he would join me.  I wanted to go alone.  I told him I'd text him the results.  He said that was unacceptable and insisted I not go alone.  This was not a quiet conversation.  It was me crying and yelling for thirty minutes, telling him that he had failed me.  If I only had six months to live, I did not want to spend them with him.  It will take time to repair this relationship.  I didn't want to invest my last six months trying to get him to learn to listen to me or take the time to explain to him how to meet my needs.  No.  But Jack didn't budge.  He worked from home in the morning and then we went to lunch before going to the Hutch.

The situation of going to the Hutch was horrible, but the experience was fine.  The situation felt like I was walking into the lobby of a coffin, if coffins had lobbies.  Or perhaps walking into the undertaker's office for your own funeral, but you aren't dead yet.  The experience was fine.  Everyone I met who worked there was friendly and kind.  They know it sucks to be a patient there.  They know no one wants to be there.  The woman at the check in desk told me she liked my wallet, and I obediently jabbered on about where I got it.  Jack thought that was a nice way of distracting a new patient from the upcoming events.  At the Hutch, appointments move on time, creating less time to ruminate.  The Breast Imaging waiting room looked out over Lake Union and had copies of... Sports Illustrated?  What?  Until I looked around and saw lots of men, waiting.  One man was sitting in a chair with his head on his knees.  While I was being examined, Jack said the man pulled his hoodie over his head, possibly sliding further into despair.  I barely sat when they called my name.

The good news is that the lump I have -- it is a lump -- is just plain regular breast tissue, indistinguishable on the mammogram and ultrasound.  I was very relieved.  I had imagined not having another birthday.  I had imagined canceling vacation.  I had imagined dropping out of volunteer activities, and my immediate life taking a different direction.  I was hoping to apply for a job this fall, but that would be out of the question.  I imagined asking other people to buy groceries for my kids.  I wondered how I would be able to eat, or if I would.  The lunch at Tom Douglas's Cuoco was sort of a last supper, in case they decided to start chemo on Thursday.

But no.  I was a lucky one.  Today.  And I am thankful for that.  They told me the lump was just regular breast tissue or fat, not a tumor.  The resident though it looked fine, and brought the doctor in.  He thought it was good, too.  At best, I thought this lump might be a cyst.  This outcome was even better.  They poked around for another minute, scanning and rescanning.  When they were done,  I almost ran out of the room, light as a balloon.  I saw Jack, and said, "Let's go."

"What happened?" he asked.

"I'm good.  I'll tell you later."  I didn't want to tell him in the waiting room that I was fine.  I did not want to jump for joy and cry while then man in the cove was further slumped with his head on his knees.  Having been on the other side of medical misery with a stillbirth, I know it is hard to watch happy people in a hospital when you are at the bottom of the emotional tank.  He did not need to see my relief.

I didn't say hello to the slumped man, but here is a picture of some flowers for him.

* I have a friend who was born and raised in another country.  She recently sent me an email saying she had cancel our plans.  She said wasn't Americanized enough to suck it up, smile and socialize after she heard some difficult news from home.  I think the problem is with Americans, not her.