You know my health history - complicated, unusual, etc. I tend to be the embodiment of Murphy's Law regarding health. Two weeks ago I went for my annual womanly checkup, and since I'm 35 (gah!) the doc figured that with my history, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get a screening mammogram done. They don't require it until you're 40, but knowing me... I'm thinking, "No problem. No lumps or anything, no reason to worry, and then they'll have a point of reference when I start going at 40."
Monday: the mammogram. I went in, they did their scans - not as painful as I had imagined - and I left. They said the radiologist would send my doc the results within two weeks.
Tuesday my doc's office calls, telling me I need to go back. "The radiologist needs additional scans of your right breast." OK... "Call them tomorrow to set up an appointment." I'm not gonna panic. It's probably just not clear enough. Maybe I moved. I'll ask more tomorrow when I call.
Wednesday I call the Radiology Lab, and (surprise, surprise!) I'm not on their list. I explain the situation, she looks it up, and sure enough, the radiologist
did request more scans.
Her: "But your doctor didn't send us the orders."
Me: "Actually, my doctor didn't request it, the radiologist requested it. They just called to tell me to come back."
Her: "Yeah, but they still have to send us the orders."
Me: "But YOU GUYS ordered more scans."
Her: "Sigh. The radiologist just sends your doctor the report. If it says there should be more scans, your doctor still needs to
reply with orders for more scans."
Me: Click.
Once I stopped screaming obscenities at a pitch only dogs can hear, I call my doctor's office and they work it all out for me.
Thursday the Radiology Lab calls me to set up the appointment. "Are these needed because the first ones were blurry? ..." No - they need to look at something more closely. I panic and make the appointment and then JR asks a bunch of questions that we had talked about asking them, but I was too flustered and I forgot. I call back, ask more questions, hang up, realize I still don't have all the answers, call again, ask
more questions, and then I have all the answers I need, plus a big black lightning-bolty cloud of panic to stuff down into a tiny box.
Answers: the first set was a screening mammogram. They saw something on there that they need to take a look at. The second set would be a diagnostic mammogram, right breast only. It would involve magnification so they can get a good look, and it might require more views. My appointment gets set up for Friday at 1:15pm.
Friday I go to work, but I'm practically useless - I can hardly focus, I keep searching my directories looking for something and forget what it was I was looking for. If I had been reading a book, I would have spent all morning re-reading the same page. The time finally comes for me to head over to my appointment.
Mammograms are awkward. You change into a flimsy hospital top in a tiny room, and then you go sit in a separate waiting room with a lot of other women in flimsy tops trying to cover up their boobs. It's like bras are armor, and we're naked and awkward without them. When I finally get called, it's to a different machine than the first one; the lady puts this magnification fitting thingy onto it, and then she does the diagnostic mammogram. Which hurts. A LOT. Way more compression for diagnostic scans. It's surreal to look down and see your breast looking like this enormous pancake. And you just have to be all casual and breezy with someone grabbing and pulling and smooshing and pushing your breast into this thing. When that's done, you go back to the little waiting room with the other women, and every once in a while one of them gets called back for more scans, or another gets told everything is fine and she can change and leave. And part of you is happy for those women who leave, while this other, tiny, awful, dark part of your brain is saying, "but that means she's on the
other side of the equation, making it more likely, statistically, that you won't be OK." And with each relieved person who leaves, that part of you is ... not really
not happy for them, ... just more and more scared for you.
I get called in for more scans. This time I have two women fumbling with this machine and my breast, because this scan (on yet another machine) is really precise and hard to do. They have to flip the machine upside down and get my boob all smooshed inside, but when they go to the computer it won't work, and it doesn't say why. They think they must have the machine upside down the wrong way. So they flip the machine all the way over the other direction, get me all up in it again, and ... now the screen actually
says it's the wrong way. They release me, flip it over again, yada-yada, and hooray! It works! They zoom way in on it, see what they're looking for, refer to the on-screen grid, and one of them has to
very awkwardly get up underneath the machine with a fine-tip sharpie and mark that exact spot, and then stick a tiny metal bb on the spot. This, they explain, is how they'll zoom in to exactly the right spot from the side, which is the view they actually need. More turning of the machine commences, me standing very still with my breast in my hands, holding it just like it was, so they can squish it the other way. They take that scan, magnify it and call me over to the computer to see it on the screen. They point out three tiny white dots called "calcifications". They're telling me if the dots are
inside the skin layer, it's OK, but if they're not, it's not so OK. They point out the skin layer and the calcifications, and to me it looks like they're not in the skin layer. I get scared. But they look happy. I'm confused. Apparently the skin layer is thicker than what I was understanding from their explanations, because it's OK. Smiles all around! "But I'm not a doctor, so the radiologist needs to look at it to be sure." Back to the waiting room for me.
When they finally call my name, it's to take me into the dressing room to tell me all is well and I can go. What a relief! I change as quickly as I can to go out to the other waiting room to tell JR I'm OK.
And we hugged and hugged and hugged, and it was a good day.
Labels: ashley, cancer, health
