Attack of the Killer Boobs
Six months ago, I found a lump in my breast. I'm a big advocate of regularly feeling yourself up, because I've walked the breast cancer walk with my mom (not the fundraiser, the real thing) and I'm determined that my kids won't have to go through what I went through with her. So while it is empowering for me to regularly check myself for lumps, it takes some major courage to monitor that aspect of my health. Hands trembling, I do it anyway.
That night I hadn't expected to find anything, as a week before I had seen my doctor for my annual checkup and breast exam. So when I found this lump--this hard, marble shaped mass just below the skin, I freaked. I tried hard not to ask Dr.Google his advice, and I tried so hard not to compare myself to my mom. I'm 35 years old--I never smoked (like she did for 14 years), I breastfed my two kids for a year and a half each because I've heard it lowers your risk for breast cancer, and I eat my 5 fruits and veggies a day. I work out at the gym two to three times a week, unlike my mom who never exercised. I load up on antioxidants on a daily basis--turmeric, broccoli, kale, blueberries, you name it--I'm a walking farmer's market. My mom never did any of those things--I can't end up with her disease, right?
After a preliminary appointment with my doctor, faxed referrals and more scheduling, I'm finally standing in the mammography room. Not so bad--a bit of squishing, arranging, more smashing--whatever, just tell me what this thing is! Then an ultrasound--back to the scene of a happier time when I was pregnant with my boys--a dark room, warmed-up gel, gently whirring computers and sounds of the technician clicking and typing. After playing the worst-case-scenario scenes in my head (I'm really, really good at this), the doctor takes me in the dark image viewing room. The news is good--WHEW--just a fatty deposit. A big, round, hard? fatty deposit. After three years of breastfeeding and a bout of mastitis, it should be no surprise. A few clustered calcifications to check back on in 6 months and I'm good to go. So, so very good.
...and here I am, 6 months later! I'm just back from the re-check, and although I got no sleep last night and I was scared to death of what they might find, again I'm in the clear. Just a simple "Everything looks good, come back in six months so we can keep charting for changes, then every year after that!" from the doctor and I walk out of the Women's Imaging Center, a new (and very relieved) woman. When will I stop feeling like I'm walking in my mother's steps? When will I forget those nights spent by her hospital bed, the days spent in the chemo clinic with patients of all ages and ethnicities, fighting for their lives while the cars zoomed by outside on their way to work, ignorant (or perhaps not) of what life is like on that side of cancer?
Scary stuff, hard stuff to bear, but stuff that I need to start letting go. Although it is a tired metaphor, it is so very much like a war, and those survivors have all the battle wounds you would expect from someone who has stared death so closely in the face. It changes you. You never look at life the same way, you always have a sense of the fragility of life and if you let that sense become the center of your life, you run the risk of letting some of life's greatest moments pass you by. Others may not understand the fear you still carry around like an overstuffed purse, the anxious sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop, the heavy burden of memories that never seem to fade. But as life continues to (try and) teach me, it is meant to be lived. So here's to life, to hearty laughter, to becoming a better person, and to simply enjoying my good health. I lift my cup of green tea with a long sigh of relief.
That night I hadn't expected to find anything, as a week before I had seen my doctor for my annual checkup and breast exam. So when I found this lump--this hard, marble shaped mass just below the skin, I freaked. I tried hard not to ask Dr.Google his advice, and I tried so hard not to compare myself to my mom. I'm 35 years old--I never smoked (like she did for 14 years), I breastfed my two kids for a year and a half each because I've heard it lowers your risk for breast cancer, and I eat my 5 fruits and veggies a day. I work out at the gym two to three times a week, unlike my mom who never exercised. I load up on antioxidants on a daily basis--turmeric, broccoli, kale, blueberries, you name it--I'm a walking farmer's market. My mom never did any of those things--I can't end up with her disease, right?
After a preliminary appointment with my doctor, faxed referrals and more scheduling, I'm finally standing in the mammography room. Not so bad--a bit of squishing, arranging, more smashing--whatever, just tell me what this thing is! Then an ultrasound--back to the scene of a happier time when I was pregnant with my boys--a dark room, warmed-up gel, gently whirring computers and sounds of the technician clicking and typing. After playing the worst-case-scenario scenes in my head (I'm really, really good at this), the doctor takes me in the dark image viewing room. The news is good--WHEW--just a fatty deposit. A big, round, hard? fatty deposit. After three years of breastfeeding and a bout of mastitis, it should be no surprise. A few clustered calcifications to check back on in 6 months and I'm good to go. So, so very good.
...and here I am, 6 months later! I'm just back from the re-check, and although I got no sleep last night and I was scared to death of what they might find, again I'm in the clear. Just a simple "Everything looks good, come back in six months so we can keep charting for changes, then every year after that!" from the doctor and I walk out of the Women's Imaging Center, a new (and very relieved) woman. When will I stop feeling like I'm walking in my mother's steps? When will I forget those nights spent by her hospital bed, the days spent in the chemo clinic with patients of all ages and ethnicities, fighting for their lives while the cars zoomed by outside on their way to work, ignorant (or perhaps not) of what life is like on that side of cancer?
Scary stuff, hard stuff to bear, but stuff that I need to start letting go. Although it is a tired metaphor, it is so very much like a war, and those survivors have all the battle wounds you would expect from someone who has stared death so closely in the face. It changes you. You never look at life the same way, you always have a sense of the fragility of life and if you let that sense become the center of your life, you run the risk of letting some of life's greatest moments pass you by. Others may not understand the fear you still carry around like an overstuffed purse, the anxious sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop, the heavy burden of memories that never seem to fade. But as life continues to (try and) teach me, it is meant to be lived. So here's to life, to hearty laughter, to becoming a better person, and to simply enjoying my good health. I lift my cup of green tea with a long sigh of relief.
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