I'm not one to think the worst or to worry to excess. Oh wait, yes I am. So the call that my recent mammogram was abnormal really scared me.
My doctor made the call herself to assure me that this kind of thing is very common. A shadow, an obstructed or blurred view, anything out of the norm, and they follow up. Caution is a good thing of course. I know this, but the timing couldn’t have been worse—two days after our family lost a very special person to breast cancer.
I tried not to worry myself sick and for the most part, I did okay. There’s a lot to be said for breathing and visualizing the positive. My aunt, even when facing the most stressful and scary circumstance imaginable, was always positive, living in the moment. She taught me (and so many others) that important lesson.
My appointment was scheduled for the day of my aunt's Celebration of Life. Oddly ironic and terribly sad. Thankfully I was able to get on a cancellation list and got an appointment a week early.
I teared up as the tech prepped me for my repeat mammogram. When I told her about my aunt she shared that she had recently lost an aunt to breast cancer too. She put her hand over mine and told me that I'd have the results before I left that day. I was relieved—I didn't want to spend another moment waiting and imagining the worst.
The next step was an ultrasound, after which, the tech left me on the table while she went to consult with the radiologist. There was no point in getting dressed, she told me, in case they needed more pictures.
So there I lay, face hot and palms sweaty despite the chill of the ultrasound gel on my chest. After about twenty minutes I'd had enough. I sat up, wiped myself clean and tied my gown. Then I took a close look at my ultrasound. The last few pictures were still on the screen.
The white dotted markers made it simple to spot. A cyst. At first I was shocked there was actually something there. I'd had myself convinced the re-test was due to a poor photo, but there it was.
I knew it was a cyst because it was completely black and had a smooth, rounded border. My daughter Avery has a brain cyst and "Dr. Google" has provided me with enough images to understand what I was seeing.
"A cyst in the breast, which feels and looks like a lump, is actually a sac filled with fluid. Cysts occur most often in women in their 30s and 40s and usually go away after menopause. However, the exact cause of cysts is not yet known. Cysts rarely turn into breast cancer, and having cysts does not necessarily increase your risk of getting breast cancer." sourceThe tech finally returned to tell me I was free to go. "But what about my results?" I asked in a panic. She told me I'd have to wait to hear from my doctor. Well, I may have wigged out just enough to have her stick her head out into the hallway to halt a passing doctor. "This lady was told she could have her results" she told him. The doctor looked at me and said, "Looks good. You're fine."
He didn't mention the cyst. I get it. That news was best coming directly from my doctor who would have the time to explain if I had questions.
In the change room instead of feeling relieved elation, I felt an angry sadness. I sat on the floor and cried and used my gown to wipe my tears. How lucky I was—thoughts of my children losing their mother and the other frightening images I conjured up while I waited for these results were quieted. I got the result that so many women, my aunt included, deserved but didn't get.