My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 2

So where did I leave off?  Oh yes, I’m at my first appointment at the Breast Clinic. So I’m waiting for Dr. P., wearing one of those paper shirts, trying to cover up my Neiman Marcus boobs. At least I’m wearing deodorant.  I’m a little apprehensive about the mammo report but not seriously worried. I have a lot of skin tags and the smash-o-gram technician only marked one of them. So I’ve already decided that’s probably what’s showing up as an abnormality and this is a waste of everybody’s time. 

Dr. P. comes in and while he’s introducing himself, he opens my gown and starts feeling around on the girls. I’m like, “Well, nice to meet you, too.”  He remarks on the size and density of the girls. We chit chat back and forth about everything but the weather. Thank goodness, because chatting about the weather would have definitely been awkward.   I tell him that I have not felt a lump during self-exams, and he says “Due to your size and density, I don’t think you would ever feel a lump.” That’s the second time he’s remarked about my size and density.  I mull that over for a second.  Ding, ding, we have a winner. I knew it. He’s just confirmed what I've always suspected: I am carrying around two twelve pound bowling balls on my chest.  

Since I brought my smash-o-gram films with me, the assistant slaps them up on the viewer, and we all look at them for the first time together. It’s readily apparent, even to me, what abnormality the radiologist was indicating. And it’s definitely not a skin tag. Buried deep in the middle of my right breast, next to the pectoral muscle, is an odd shaped mass. He taps it with a pen and says yep, that’s it. There’s the reason for the concern. It doesn’t look threatening to me. Looks almost like a blob of skin lotion. OMG…my husband is right! He’s always telling me I’m going to turn into a bottle of skin lotion. Hey, I tell him, it’s dry here in the desert. My skin needs nourishment. But there’s the evidence! The conversion has already started! Seriously, though, wouldn’t that have been nice if it was actually true?

Instead, Dr. P. says we need to do a biopsy. He explains one part:  You’re going to lay on your stomach on a table with holes in it and your boobs will hang down into the holes. I almost start laughing out loud; the image in my head is pretty hilarious. I notice his assistant sort of gives him a funny look, but she doesn’t say anything.  I presume everything is okay then.  Based on the heinous torture my OBGYN has put me through the past couple of months, I figure this can’t be any worse.  Piece of cake.  So I stuff the girls back into their protective holder, make an appointment for the biopsy, and exit the building. I call my husband, tell him about the biopsy, and ask him if he would be there with me. Of course he will.

The biopsy day arrives, and I have to admit I was a little stressed. I’ve never had a biopsy before. I have no idea what to expect. To ease some of the stress, I picture myself lying face down on a table with my boobs hanging through some holes. This makes me chuckle. Of course, it turns out that the table isn’t quite like that.

The technician comes out and gets me. My husband remains in the waiting room. Probably a good thing. We walk into the room and there’s the table.  I can see now why Dr. P.’s assistant gave him a funny look when he was describing it. There’s only one hole. I get half naked again…becoming a habit…and put on the silly paper shirt. Open in the front of course. She directs me to lie down on the table and place the sick boob in the one and only hole.  Now, put your right arm down by your side, put your left arm above your head, and turn your head to the left.  Seriously? This contortionist act is even worse than the mammo machine. All of a sudden, I can feel her pulling on my boob. The one hanging down in the hole.  Then she starts smashing it. Wow. This is very uncomfortable. She says that she will do her very best to isolate the area (I think “blob of lotion), but it might take a couple of pulls and tugs and more smashing because it’s really buried.  In between the tugging and smashing, she’s using a computer to capture the images. After a couple of minutes, she says, “I have it. Don’t move.”  I tell her I think that would be nearly impossible so not to worry. She laughs and proceeds to tell me about one lady who did manage to escape from the machine. I’m thinking, well that’s nice but let’s get on with it. Finally she says, “I’ll go get the doctor.” I ask the obvious questions, “You mean he’s not here? I’m not going to have to wait like 15 minutes or anything am I?” Serious thoughts of torturous things I could do to the doctor with this hole and the metal smashing device below the table start running through my head. Thankfully she said he was just right outside.  Whew. There will be no reason to explain to a judge why I’m being charged with felonious assault.

Dr. P. and the technician come back into the room. Suddenly, I can feel some cold wet liquid being applied to the hanging boob – not in any way to be confused with a hanging chad - with a cotton swab. It’s just antiseptic I’m told. Dr. P. says he’s going to numb the area with a shot and it will feel somewhat like the kind you get when you go to the dentist. I hate the dentist. After you’re numb, he says, the computer guided needle will enter your breast and pluck a section of the offending tissue from the area. He says he hopes he can get a good sample because it’s really deep. I tell him good luck, because I’d hate to see what kind of fun is in store for me if he can’t get the sample.  He gives me the shot, which hurt just like when the dentist gives me one. Did I tell you that I hate the dentist? Almost immediately, I feel a sharp pinch.  I thought ouch, but I must have said it out loud.  “You can feel that?” he asks. I said “Well, yes. You really didn’t give the shot time to work. But don’t stop now. Let’s get this over with.”

After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only seconds, he’s done. And he’s gone. The technician un-smashes the hanging boob, cleans me up a little bit, then helps me sit up. I can’t help but observe all the blood on the towels under the hole in the table. She notices that I already have a huge hematoma forming under the incision area. Since the computer guided needle had to travel through so much dense tissue to reach the blob of lotion, she says, it was bound to happen. Well, she doesn’t really call it the “blob of lotion” but that’s how I’m thinking of it so that’s what I hear. She cleans me up some more, tapes over the incision area and says to leave the tape on for five days. I then watch her dump my tissue sample into the medical container and seal it up. Amazingly, it really did look like a blob of lotion. She then tapes this little bitty round ice bag to my boob and says “Don’t be concerned it your breast develops a huge bruise. You can get dressed now.” Well, this is easier said than done. The hanging boob does not want to go back into its protective holder. I finally manage to corral the girls - ouch - and head to the checkout to make an appointment. I have to wait an entire week for the results.