Journey

a small memoir from an impromptu journal

By Trisha Davis

October 15

I'm sitting in the Doctor's office, writing in my little black book. My way of stilling my nerves. I've found an odd shaped mass in my right breast. It has taken me six weeks to get here.

***

Back in February, I'd planned a 'me day' for Valentine's. Mammograms had never been regarded as an experience to look forward to and I'd successfully avoided them for sometime. Too busy; too costly; machine is broken, whatever.

After the standard number of standard poses, I dressed and left, pleased with myself for finally doing what I knew was a good idea. The staff waved me out saying, /iSee you next Valentine's Day./i

The pressure-ache in my right breast stayed with me and, over the next few days, gave a tiny twinge every once in a while. Then, the Imaging Department called and said the Radiology doc wanted a few more shots. The news was as unsettling as the suspicious PAP smear I had years before. I know it usually means a bad film or I had wiggled or/a

Driving down the South Forkon my way to the repeat mammogram, I couldn't help wondering, Would I have to learn to be brave? I had never thought of myself as a coward, but I didn't know if I was truly brave

I wasn't too nervous until the technician explained the doc wanted a few shots in one area of the right breast that wasn't very clear. A small adrenaline rush left me tingly. I told her about the odd sensation of feeling my right breast. She smiled and reassured me. /iYou can feel lumps but cancer lumps aren't painful./i The Rad doc looked at the new shots and reassured me as well. /iDon't see anything to be concerned about./i Exactly what I wanted to hear.

***

The pain in my breast came at a snail's pace - a bearable ache until one nactions.

October 22

If I didn't have a burning sensation before, I do now. I feel mangled. Mammograms. Ugh!

Here I am, waiting again, this time I'm wearing an exam gown. I have a band-aided BB on my right nipple and one over the ridge. Markers. I thought they were cute on Valentine's Day, sexy even.

Cheryl is running today's shots, she'll show them to the Rad Doc. With some luck, what ever he sees will be a conclusive 'negative' and further testing won't be needed.

I don't know how much longer I can keep this between me and my breast. Mom can't know. She'd probe and ask questions till I'm ready to clobber her. Beside, she is nearly 88 and doesn't need this kind of worry. If Chuck knew there would be a slip of conversation and Mom would hear it. She won't wear her hearing aid any more and I have yell for her to hear me but I know she would hear this if I even whispered.

Others have made this journey, some with solid support, others alone. So far, it is my choice to journey alone. I hate sympathy, empathy, concern, pity, apathy towards me. They erode my resolve, weaken my protective shell. Better to give than receive. I'm alone with my feelings and that is OK.

Damn! Doc needs two more views. This does not sound like a conclusive negative vote for me.

*

Inconclusive. I'm not surprised, just disappointed. Ultrasound is recommended because 15% of breast cancers can not be detected by mammography. That's uncomfortable news to me. Doc says if an ultrasound is inconclusive the next step is a needle biopsy, what he would want his wife to do. God! I hate needles!

I make the appointment and plan a trip to the Laundromat to cover the extra time away from home.

October 30

It's Ultrasound day. Yesterday, Chuck found the doctor's order for the diagnostic mammogram and flipped out. He couldn't figure out why I didn't tell him, why I kept it secret. /iWhy didn't you tell me? You can trust me!/i Yeah. Right. You couldn't keep my secret to yourself. I didn't want to tell. Not yet, damn it! That would make it real.

Chuck's feelings were hurt and I was angry. My shell had a crack. I didn't want to deal with how anyone else felt.

This is my journey. I don't want questions or pink ribbons or cute breast t-shirts. I want to be normal. I don't want helpful hints or someone else's story. I don't want cheerful pick me ups or anyone one to know even a hint until I know what I am dealing with. And how I'm going to deal with it. Now I am at risk for all of the attention I do not want.

Fair or not, Chuck is stuck with the burden of knowledge that was not his to have.

*

Ultrasound has come a long way since those vague prenatal pictures. It was interesting. The ultrasound tech, was reassuring saying she had similar issues with bumpy, lumpy breasts six years ago. She had to go to Anchorage for a needle biopsy and the third opinion since mammography and ultrasound could not confirm lump properties. I will probably opt for that procedure too. I'll sleep better - either way. Doc said he couldn't see anything. /iA needle biopsy is the only way to really know what you have./i I agree and make the appointment at the Imaging desk on my way out.

I won't have to make up a reason to be gone this time. There's some ambivalence about that. I don't have 'make up' anything but Chuck will be expecting me to talk about what ever I know and I'm not ready to do that yet.

Nov 12

Driving to town I feel the tension creep down my neck; by the time I park the truck my shoulders are nearly rigid going into the hospital.

The receptionist asks me to sign in. My hand begins to shake and I can hardly hold the pen. I not sure what my name is and a moment passes before I remember who I am and another before I can write it. Adrenaline is pumping faster than I can rationalize it away. God, I hate needles. Gotta go. Its show time.

I was surprised by my calmness once I followed the tech back to the ultrasound room. The procedure is called an ultrasound assisted needle biopsy. The Doc is young and confident, explaining the whole thing as he went. I watch a tiny needle push hard before the ridge gave way, letting the Novocain be delivered, soft tissue floats away from it. Then THE NEEDLE is put into place. I don't feel a thing but I'm watching it all, my eyes are glued to the ultrasound screen. /iWhat was that white thing?/i I ask, when a line shows on the screen.

/iThe biopsy needle. I shoot it in and retrieve tissue samples. Pretty cool really. You probably won't even be sore. I don't think we'll find anything though. This all looks like normal tissue to me./i Exactly what I wanted to hear.

I leave with a band aid (no BB) and an ice pack. I'm much calmer. I'll know in five days.

Nov 17

The biopsy report should be in today. The last few days have gone smoothly, without fear and I wonder, if in my deepest Me, do I already know that everything is OK? Or am I BS-ing myself? I called the Doc at 3 p.m. Chuck calls at 3:15. Have I called? Yes. Negative. Good. I'll see you when you get home. Love ya.

I heard exactly what I wanted to hear.

***

I don't have to learn how to be brave. At least not for the time being. I can tell about it now. I don't have to worry about losing courage in the face of kindness. Kindness, is and has always been, the only thing guaranteed to make me cry. Every time.