12.30.04: Lump, Be A Lady ‹ Blog « Without-Feathers.com

A man too busy to take care of his health is like a mechanic too busy to take care of his tools.
Spanish Proverb

Lump, Be A Lady

12.30.04

A girl’s first breast lump is a very exciting event, let me tell you. It absolutely changes your life. One minute you’re just sitting at the computer, reading about breastfeeding and absently poking your own little cousins, when all of a sudden something hard and angular pokes back. Much ripping off of shirts and bras inevitably follows, and then there’s a silently awkward quarter of an hour where you rush from mirror to mirror throughout the house, squinting at your chest and paddling with your fingers until your breast begins to turn a lovely shade of reddish-purple from all the tactile attention. Still shirtless, you sit down at the computer and spend another hour scouring the web for information and getting progressively more freaked out at the big scary words—ultrasound! mammogram! mastectomy! Eventually, though, you calm down and find you are more annoyed than worried, and by the end of the day you’re so exasperated with the whole situation that when your husband gets home you greet him at the door with a sharp kitchen knife and a Cut me open, boy, and pull that bastard out!

At least, that was my experience. Being the health-conscious (and slightly hypochondriacal—is that even a word?) individual that I am, I promptly make an appointment with my doctor, both to have the lump looked at and to deal with my constant stabbing headaches, which I had previously thought were due to sinusitis but which, when combined with the lump in my breast, probably mean that A VAST NETWORK OF TUMORS has taken over my entire body and is devouring me like a school of internal pirahnas. By the time I actually get to the doctor’s office, I’ve written my will in my head and am planning the details of my funeral—I want my coffin lined with white silk, thank you very much.

I’m only twenty-one, so I’ve never had a breast examination or a mammogram. This is all new to me. While the doctor prods at my bosom, I’m not sure where to look—it’s not really good form for a married woman to make eye contact with the stranger fondling her tits, now is it? Geez, you think they’d have some pictures on the ceiling or something—that’s what they have at the dentist’s office.

“Probably a fibroid cyst,” says the doctor, while I struggle with the goddamn hospital gown that refuses to cover me up again. “Nothing to worry about, really. It’s pretty common for women your age to have tissue density changes. But just to be on the safe side, we’ll set you up for an ultrasound at the breast care center downtown, okay? Good.”

I said I wasn’t worried, but two long weeks of waiting bring back the nagging doubt. Christmas—never my favorite holiday anyway—is slightly grey around the edges. The lump disappears for a couple of days during my menstrual cycle, then returns full-force, accompanied by a crescent-shaped thickening all around the underside of my breast. At this rate, my tits will soon be so solid that they’ll look like those pointed Madonna bras.

The breast care center downtown turns out to be part of the downtown hospital—which is good, since I’m unfortunately very familiar with the hospital. My mother was sick a lot when I was a kid, so I know that place like the back of my hand. Tony looks like he’s more worried than I am as we wait in the cozy waiting room. All the magazines on the coffee table are either O or something to do with home decorating. Aren’t there any women who like to read sports or business mags? I have just resigned myself to the latest Dr. Phil column when my name is called.

More hospital gowns—ones that open in front, this time. On the plus side, they’re easier to hold close—on the minus side, I keep forgetting and accidentally flashing my goods to the nursing staff. Sorry, folks. There’s another waiting room back here; the magazines are a little more interesting (People, Allure, etc.), but all of them seem to have a cover story centering around breast cancer. The irony is chilling.

My name is called again, and I’m taken into a small, dim room. There’s just one recessed lightbulb illuminating the whole room; it’s placed directly over the examination table, as though they plan to interrogate me. Maybe they think I’m a terrorist, storing illegal explosives in my nipples? I lie down with my arm above my head, and the nurse opens my robe and smears purple-blue jelly over my breast.

It really is just like a fetus ultrasound. I crane my neck to watch the computer screen with its blurry black-and-white swirls, forgetting my nervousness as I watch the lump appear and disappear with the sensor’s movements. The lump looks large and regular and solid. I expect the nurse to point out its face or its genitals.

The purple-blue jelly smells a little odd. The nurse is silent as she moves the sensor around, and the silence makes me nervous. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m about to yell “Woohoo!” or “Yeehaw!” or “Danger, Will Robinson!” just to create some noise, when the nurse finally says, “I’ll go show these to the radiologist, and we’ll get his input. Wait here. Don’t wipe off the jelly; he might want to look for himself.” Abruptly, she’s gone, and I’m left with a jelly-covered bosom and a lot of questions. What exactly is the lump made of? Did it look malignant? After all this fuss at this hour of the morning, I’m starting to feel a bit malignant. “You’re causing me a lot of trouble,” I say to my breast. “And why? Haven’t I always treated you nice? Hell, I didn’t even make you wear Wonderbras, and now you—” I break off as the nurse re-enters the room and gives me an odd look. Oh yeah, like I’m the first patient who’s ever had a conversation with her chest.

The radiologist is right behind her, looking lean and tired. Oh, great—the guy who has to make the final decision about my bump is tired. This can’t end well. He slides onto a stool and grabs the sensor wearily. “Let’s get a look at this.” We all peer at the screen. “Well,” says the radiologist, putting the sensor down and turning back to me, “it looks like a benign tumor—probably fibrosomethingorother. Almost definitely not malignant, but there’s always a mild chance, of course. It would be really rare in someone of your age, however. You’ve got two options—well, three actually…” He trails off and stares thoughtfully at the ultrasound screen for a moment; maybe he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. “Two options,” he says again. “You can either have it surgically removed—just a lumpectomy, they just make a little incision and remove it—or you can have a biopsy, where they put a needle in and get a sample of the lump.” He’s making weird surgical insertion motions with his hands, like he’s a psychic surgeon or something. “Either way, we’ll examine the lump and find out what it’s made of. That’ll rule out cancer, probably. Removal is not a necessity; you’d probably only want it removed for cosmetic reasons, if you don’t like feeling the lump. Of course, the lump may return, or you may get other lumps, so removal isn’t necessarily a permanent option. You don’t have to make a decision today—”

“Biopsy,” I say. “Biopsy me like there’s no tomorrow.”

He chuckles wearily at that. “Okay,” he says. “The nurse’ll get you set up for an appointment—no promises, but we might be able to get it done today.” He slithers off the stool and out the door, leaving me with the nurse. “You can wipe the jelly off now,” she says, handing me a washcloth. “I’ll just go get you set up for an appointment.” She leaves, and I’m left alone, trying to remove the apparently non-removable jelly. “Ha,” I say to my breast. “Benign. Benign as a bump on a log.”

“We can fit you in this morning,” says the nurse, poking her head back in and regarding me warily as I stop chatting with my tit and try to look normal. “The radiologist can do it. He’s good—really fast.” How odd—for once in my life, I want a man to be fast.

“Terrible weather outside,” says the nurse, peering out one of the thin, fogged-up windows. “Was it really icy when you drove here?”

“Not really,” I say. “Could be worse—could be tsunamis.”

“Isn’t that terrible, though?” The nurse leans against the wall. “I get my paycheck today. I’m gonna send some of it over there.” I nod agreeably, commending her decency. “What is it, now—115,000 dead?” She shakes her head sagely. “But if you read the Bible or Nostradamus, it’s all in there.” I make a noncommittal noise. If it’s all been predicted, why weren’t there warnings? And why would she need to take money out of her paycheck—if she knew this was coming, she should have started a fund months ago.

I adjust myself on the table as another nurse comes in, smiling conspiratorially as she pushes a tray full of sharp and shiny implements. My god, are they going to cut me from collar to crotch? And that needle looks like it was originally meant for use on large animals. I tell myself that I’m frightened, but actually I’m a bit excited. “This is my first major medical procedure,” I tell the nurse happily. “Everyone else in my family has had stuff done, but not me. Finally, I get to do something!” She smiles, and settles a washcloth in my armpit. “To catch the iodine,” she explains, smearing the brown liquid over my breast. “So it doesn’t drip and tickle you to death.”

The radiologist slinks back in and settles himself on the stool again, snapping blue rubber gloves onto his hands with a flourish. “Now, I’ll explain everything as I’m doing it,” he says, filling a syringe. The nurse slides the sensor around on my breast, locating the lump again. The radiologist turns to me and removes the washcloth from my armpit. The nurse gives him a look. “That was to catch the iodine,” she says. He doesn’t apologize.

“This is a painkiller,” the radiologist tells me, holding the syringe up so I can see. “This is the worst part of the procedure, really—it’s the only part that hurts.” The nurse looks like she’s preparing to hold me down in case I struggle. I hold back a derisive snort—that’s the worst part? Oh, come on. I spent my childhood getting dental work done without Novocaine; this is a walk in the mofo park. Still, it does sting a bit. I breathe deeply and evenly as the needle pierces my flesh. My mother taught me Lamaze-type breathing when I was little, to help me get through painful immunizations. Thanks, Mom.

“You have good breathing,” says the radiologist, looking slightly more awake. “Do you do Pilates?”

“No,” I say, “karate.” Out goes the needle, and here comes the large-animal implement. The radiologist does something I can’t see (all this takes place on the bottom of my breast, which might as well be the dark side of the moon for all I can see of it) and then there’s movement on the ultrasound screen. I look up—there’s the lump, round and regular, and there’s the needle, solid and straight, pointing right at it. “We’re going to shoot right through it,” says the doctor. “You’ll hear a clunk.” CLUNK! and the needle lances the lump, going right through the middle. I can’t help but laugh. “That is so cool,” I say.

“I do Pilates,” says the radiologist, taking the needle out and scooting back to the tray to deposit the sample. “It’s all about breathing, really.”

“That’s like yoga, right?” says the nurse, still looking ready to pounce in case I decide to act up.

“Not really,” says the radiologist, coming back with needle in hand. “There’s lots of deep breathing, to center yourself—” He demonstrates with a few deep breaths, and the nurse mimics it curiously. I flash back to my dental-work-filled childhood again—dentists and hygienists bending over me, carrying on odd conversations while they work. The radiologist poke the needle in again; there’s no pain, only pressure. I keep an eye on the screen.

“So what do you do?” says the radiologist to me, belatedly remembering to distract the patient with small talk. I want to tell him that it’s not really necessary, I’m perfectly happy to watch the whole thing. “Freelance indexer,” I say, then mentally kick myself. Great—now I have to explain, and I’m too interested in the procedure. “What’s that?” he asks me. CLUNK! “I write the indexes for the back of books,” I tell him, as the needle goes through the lump again. “I’ll bet this procedure is hard to do on women with breast implants.”

“Not usually,” he says. “With a good breast job, the implants are down below the breasts, to push them up and out.” He chuckles sagely. “We have had a few bad jobs in here, though.”

CLUNK! I may never get tired of watching the screen. “Wow,” I say, sounding like a stoner and not really caring. “You should have been a nurse,” chuckles the nurse. “You seem pretty interested in this. It’s her first major medical procedure,” she tells the radiologist, “and she’s excited about it.” He chuckles, too. “Ah, an enthusiastic patient. Wonderful,” he says, shooting the lump again. ‘Shooting the lump’ should be a phrase—but what would it mean?

“All done,” says the radiologist, stripping off his rubber gloves. “We’ll send these down to the lab; results will be back in 24 hours. We fax the results to your doctor, so you can call tomorrow afternoon and get them. Have a nice day.” And off he trudges. The nurse presses a wad of cotton to the hole in my breast. “It’ll be bruised for a few days,” she says. “It might be sore, once the painkiller wears off. Take Tylenol—no aspirin, no acetominophen, they’ll thin the blood and make it bleed.” She settles a bandage over the wound, then covers it with another bandage and a thin layer of what looks like Saran wrap with glue on one side. “Keep the dressings dry for 24 hours — no swimming, no hot-tubbing, no showering. The clear bandage has a special kind of glue that makes it stick well, so don’t try and rip it off like you would a Band-Aid; you’ll take the skin off with it if you do. Wait until it starts to peel by itself, or use baby oil to help remove it. All right? Okay. Results are sent to your doctor; they’ll be available in 24 hours. Have a good day.” I trundle back to the changing room, shrug off the papery hospital gown, and put my clothes back on, being extra careful with my bra. The bandage is a lump under my shirt. “All better,” I say cheerfully to my tit. “You can’t scare me, you know.”

The next day, of course, is a Friday, and New Year’s Eve to boot. I’d forgotten that it would be. My doctor takes Fridays off, and I’m sure pretty much everyone else is out as well. Still, I leave a message asking him to call me with the results. And then I wait. And wait. And wait.

The nurse did say results in 24 hours, right?

I’m worried now, even though I doubt that there’s anything to worry about. Still, time is ticking by, and the silence from the doctor is starting to seem ominous. I start to panic. Is this my punishment for switching the channel every time the local news covers the breast cancer rallies? Is this what I get for never buying those ugly pink ribbon pins they sell at the drugstore? And to think I used to scoff at that local radio commercial where the woman’s literally counting the seconds until she gets her biopsy results. Payback is a bitch.

Six—count ’em, six—days and several increasingly annoyed phone calls to my doctor later, I finally get a call back from one of the nurses at my clinic. “Romy?” she says. “It looks good. Benign fibroid cyst. Okay? Bye.”

Wow. Less than ten seconds, and such a weight off my chest. (Figuratively, not literally—the lump is still there, after all.) And do you think they could have managed that brief little notification earlier? Just maybe?

Newly relieved, I give my benign breast a pat. Maybe it’s time to walk down to the drugstore and buy one of those ugly pink ribbon pins after all.