I didn’t blame Adam and Melissa really, but the first thing I said out loud after I found the lump was, “We’re never going fishing with Adam and Melissa again!” This was after I called my fiance into the room to verify that there was, in fact, a hard, albeit tiny, area on my upper right breast. I wanted to believe that I was just tired. We had been night fishing, and I had eaten a huge dinner, and, well, I WAS tired. But after I felt the lump, I was wide awake.
Despite that initial alarm, I didn’t believe it was cancer. I didn’t ever believe it was cancer. The only thing I really felt was a little alarmed because I didn’t have insurance and I needed to get this over with, prove it wasn’t cancer, and get married with a clear conscience and a pebble-free set of jugs.
And what had made me even find it, anyway? I didn’t do self-exams. I was just stretching in bed. Just stretching! Then something, I can’t say it was a voice or a niggling doubt or an urge; my mind didn’t even register that my arm was moving. Then it was my hand that was moving. Then I rubbed my chest, really hard, RIGHT THERE. And it was...it was unmistakable.
After that, I didn’t touch it. What I did do was make an appointment online to go to the student health center on campus the next day I would be in class. August 31 was that date.
In the series of questions the student health center Web site asked to determine why I was making an appointment, “breast pebble” was not covered. The closest I could come to it was “women’s health”. I tried to explain in the tiny space allotted to explain things if your issue wasn’t covered, and what I came up with that fit was “I found a lump.”
Still, the whole business was an irritation at most. I didn’t have insurance. I was trying to finish up planning my wedding, since I was getting married in less than three weeks. I didn’t have extra money to be throwing around! Thank GOD for the student health center!
What I didn’t realize then was that, thank GOD for the student health center. Specifically, the nurse practitioner who was assigned to my appointment. She was reassuring and calm and beautiful, and she loved my shoes. I loved her shoes. She had me settled down in no time, saying that she would just send me over for an ultrasound so we could make sure it was nothing.
Unfortunately, I had to wait another week for that ultrasound. Still, I wasn’t very concerned. I thought, I can wait until September 7. That will make Hunter’s (my son’s) birthday on September 9 even more of a cause for celebration!
My fiance came with me to the ultrasound. A very cute, younger than me radiation tech, or whatever they’re called, performed it. Because I was watching her so closely, I noticed when the tiny frown appeared between her eyebrows. She got up, making a quick excuse that she just “had to make sure” it was nothing, and left to consult with the head of the radiation department. That was the only time I had doubt. I gripped Billy’s hand and he said reassuring things and made jokes and by the time she came back in, I felt better.
Then I felt MUCH better, because the head of the radiation department had said it was nothing. Woo! The tech kept talking, something about letting them know if anything changed, but I was already over her and the whole experience. Now I could give Hunter a great birthday, have a great wedding, and just go on living my great life.
And it was great.
Until we got back from a Thanksgiving weekend campout with, you guessed it, Adam and Melissa.
I love Adam and Melissa. They’re funny and down-to-earth, and I know it’s not any fault of either of them that terrible things happened to me after spending time with them. I do. I know it.
It just seemed hard to remember at the time.
We got home, I was, again, laying in bed, stretching and thanking God for my bed again after the less-than-idyllic sleeping conditions of the weekend (I’m not a camping chick). Then, damn it all, my hand darted down to the lump. I hadn’t been touching it at all. Not at all. I didn’t want to, you know?
The lump formerly known as the pebble was bigger. It was a lot bigger. If I had to shoot you an estimate on the spot, I would have said it was five times bigger. That’s what it felt like.
Have you ever heard the expression “my blood ran cold”? Mine did. So, ok, I lied before. There was more than one time I had doubt. This was the second.
I again called for Billy. He felt it and told me that he had commented on how big it had gotten recently, but I didn’t recall him telling me. He told me that I told him the radiation tech had said that it was nothing to worry about if it grew. I remembered none of that. I only knew what she had really said, which was the exact opposite.
So I made another appointment with the student health center for the next time I would be on campus, November 30. The morning of my appointment, they left me a message. The nurse practitioner I had the appointment with (same one as before) was sick. Could I come back the next Tuesday, December 7?
Of course I could. This worked better for me, because Billy and I were going to Texas in a couple of days, to have his vasectomy reversed. When I told him, he said maybe we should wait until after we knew that I was ok.
I pushed it. I pushed it because what if he decided to put the surgery off? Then we wouldn’t have kids. We had waited three months to get a surgery date with this particular doctor. We would have to wait another three months if we postponed. We were already 35 years old. The clock was ticking.
So, he had the surgery. I was consumed with how un-good it made him feel, and taking care of him in Texas all weekend kept my mind off of my boob lump (which I knew was nothing anyway, or at least nothing but an inconvenience).
When the nurse practitioner felt my boob the second time, a look crossed her face. She remained very calm as she told me that it was good that the lump moved around when she touched it, but bad that it was so hard. It was also bad that it had gotten so much bigger. She said I needed a surgeon.
“I can just make an appointment with a doctor in my town,” I said casually.
“No.” She was firm as she told me that I wasn’t understanding her. “You need a surgeon. It needs to come out.”
She called a surgeon right then and there, as I stood next to her and tried not to think. It’s hard not to think when you’re standing there in a paper gown, listening to the urgent voice of your student health center nurse practitioner pushing for the earliest possible appointment time because this lump was cause for alarm.
OK. I lied again. There were three times I had doubt.
Still, as I walked out of the health center, I fought for calm. I called Billy and asked him if I had insurance yet (I had been trying to get signed up under his plan since we got married, but had not heard anything definite).
He heard it in my voice. It was pretty easy to do since I had started to cry.
He said he would call the insurance people right away. I hung up and called my friend Marilyn, who had lost a breast and wore a tight arm casting for 23 hours a day due to two bouts with breast cancer.
She was calm and loving. She told me that the lump growing so quickly was actually good news, not bad. She said that cancer didn’t usually grow that fast and that the odds were with me that it was a cyst that was rapidly filling with fluid.
But it’s hard, I thought but didn’t say.
She kept me on the phone until Billy called back. I was just walking in circles all over campus on the freezing December day as he told me the good news: I was covered!
So I just had to wait one more week, until I met with the surgeon.
That day was December 14. Again, Bill came with me. The surgeon was calm, confident, and called me sweetie, which made me feel ridiculously safe. He was also sure it was nothing. He said he could take the lump out one week from that day, which would be December 21. He said even though it was coming out, I should probably get a mammogram to be on the safe side. We scheduled it for the 16th.
I had heard a lot of things about mammograms. Well, wait. I had actually heard one thing about mammograms, from a lot of different sources: that they hurt. That they squeezed badly and were generally horrible and uncomfortable.
Mine wasn’t. I was there for a couple of hours, but as I’ve learned since, that’s just the mammography department. They aren’t in a hurry. At all.
The good part about mammograms: they have big jars of candy in the room with the machine. I loaded up. Once I got my mammogram, there was again a worried technician. She never told me anything, however, just sent me across the hall to get an ultrasound. For some reason, this time I wasn’t worried. I think it was because everyone else had been so positive about it being nothing. Also, I was about to be very late for a final and I was ready to get out of there.
After the ultrasound, the head of radiation came in himself to talk to me. Again, this should have alarmed me, but didn’t. He asked if I was there alone. I said yes, and I have 10 minutes to get to my final. He asked me if I had family or friends. I said yes, I have both. I told him the lump was scheduled to come out in five days’ time. He expressed great relief.
None of this phased me. I had already surrounded myself with a bubble of denial.
I got to my final with no time to spare. And I aced it.
Despite that initial alarm, I didn’t believe it was cancer. I didn’t ever believe it was cancer. The only thing I really felt was a little alarmed because I didn’t have insurance and I needed to get this over with, prove it wasn’t cancer, and get married with a clear conscience and a pebble-free set of jugs.
And what had made me even find it, anyway? I didn’t do self-exams. I was just stretching in bed. Just stretching! Then something, I can’t say it was a voice or a niggling doubt or an urge; my mind didn’t even register that my arm was moving. Then it was my hand that was moving. Then I rubbed my chest, really hard, RIGHT THERE. And it was...it was unmistakable.
After that, I didn’t touch it. What I did do was make an appointment online to go to the student health center on campus the next day I would be in class. August 31 was that date.
In the series of questions the student health center Web site asked to determine why I was making an appointment, “breast pebble” was not covered. The closest I could come to it was “women’s health”. I tried to explain in the tiny space allotted to explain things if your issue wasn’t covered, and what I came up with that fit was “I found a lump.”
Still, the whole business was an irritation at most. I didn’t have insurance. I was trying to finish up planning my wedding, since I was getting married in less than three weeks. I didn’t have extra money to be throwing around! Thank GOD for the student health center!
What I didn’t realize then was that, thank GOD for the student health center. Specifically, the nurse practitioner who was assigned to my appointment. She was reassuring and calm and beautiful, and she loved my shoes. I loved her shoes. She had me settled down in no time, saying that she would just send me over for an ultrasound so we could make sure it was nothing.
Unfortunately, I had to wait another week for that ultrasound. Still, I wasn’t very concerned. I thought, I can wait until September 7. That will make Hunter’s (my son’s) birthday on September 9 even more of a cause for celebration!
My fiance came with me to the ultrasound. A very cute, younger than me radiation tech, or whatever they’re called, performed it. Because I was watching her so closely, I noticed when the tiny frown appeared between her eyebrows. She got up, making a quick excuse that she just “had to make sure” it was nothing, and left to consult with the head of the radiation department. That was the only time I had doubt. I gripped Billy’s hand and he said reassuring things and made jokes and by the time she came back in, I felt better.
Then I felt MUCH better, because the head of the radiation department had said it was nothing. Woo! The tech kept talking, something about letting them know if anything changed, but I was already over her and the whole experience. Now I could give Hunter a great birthday, have a great wedding, and just go on living my great life.
And it was great.
Until we got back from a Thanksgiving weekend campout with, you guessed it, Adam and Melissa.
I love Adam and Melissa. They’re funny and down-to-earth, and I know it’s not any fault of either of them that terrible things happened to me after spending time with them. I do. I know it.
It just seemed hard to remember at the time.
We got home, I was, again, laying in bed, stretching and thanking God for my bed again after the less-than-idyllic sleeping conditions of the weekend (I’m not a camping chick). Then, damn it all, my hand darted down to the lump. I hadn’t been touching it at all. Not at all. I didn’t want to, you know?
The lump formerly known as the pebble was bigger. It was a lot bigger. If I had to shoot you an estimate on the spot, I would have said it was five times bigger. That’s what it felt like.
Have you ever heard the expression “my blood ran cold”? Mine did. So, ok, I lied before. There was more than one time I had doubt. This was the second.
I again called for Billy. He felt it and told me that he had commented on how big it had gotten recently, but I didn’t recall him telling me. He told me that I told him the radiation tech had said that it was nothing to worry about if it grew. I remembered none of that. I only knew what she had really said, which was the exact opposite.
So I made another appointment with the student health center for the next time I would be on campus, November 30. The morning of my appointment, they left me a message. The nurse practitioner I had the appointment with (same one as before) was sick. Could I come back the next Tuesday, December 7?
Of course I could. This worked better for me, because Billy and I were going to Texas in a couple of days, to have his vasectomy reversed. When I told him, he said maybe we should wait until after we knew that I was ok.
I pushed it. I pushed it because what if he decided to put the surgery off? Then we wouldn’t have kids. We had waited three months to get a surgery date with this particular doctor. We would have to wait another three months if we postponed. We were already 35 years old. The clock was ticking.
So, he had the surgery. I was consumed with how un-good it made him feel, and taking care of him in Texas all weekend kept my mind off of my boob lump (which I knew was nothing anyway, or at least nothing but an inconvenience).
When the nurse practitioner felt my boob the second time, a look crossed her face. She remained very calm as she told me that it was good that the lump moved around when she touched it, but bad that it was so hard. It was also bad that it had gotten so much bigger. She said I needed a surgeon.
“I can just make an appointment with a doctor in my town,” I said casually.
“No.” She was firm as she told me that I wasn’t understanding her. “You need a surgeon. It needs to come out.”
She called a surgeon right then and there, as I stood next to her and tried not to think. It’s hard not to think when you’re standing there in a paper gown, listening to the urgent voice of your student health center nurse practitioner pushing for the earliest possible appointment time because this lump was cause for alarm.
OK. I lied again. There were three times I had doubt.
Still, as I walked out of the health center, I fought for calm. I called Billy and asked him if I had insurance yet (I had been trying to get signed up under his plan since we got married, but had not heard anything definite).
He heard it in my voice. It was pretty easy to do since I had started to cry.
He said he would call the insurance people right away. I hung up and called my friend Marilyn, who had lost a breast and wore a tight arm casting for 23 hours a day due to two bouts with breast cancer.
She was calm and loving. She told me that the lump growing so quickly was actually good news, not bad. She said that cancer didn’t usually grow that fast and that the odds were with me that it was a cyst that was rapidly filling with fluid.
But it’s hard, I thought but didn’t say.
She kept me on the phone until Billy called back. I was just walking in circles all over campus on the freezing December day as he told me the good news: I was covered!
So I just had to wait one more week, until I met with the surgeon.
That day was December 14. Again, Bill came with me. The surgeon was calm, confident, and called me sweetie, which made me feel ridiculously safe. He was also sure it was nothing. He said he could take the lump out one week from that day, which would be December 21. He said even though it was coming out, I should probably get a mammogram to be on the safe side. We scheduled it for the 16th.
I had heard a lot of things about mammograms. Well, wait. I had actually heard one thing about mammograms, from a lot of different sources: that they hurt. That they squeezed badly and were generally horrible and uncomfortable.
Mine wasn’t. I was there for a couple of hours, but as I’ve learned since, that’s just the mammography department. They aren’t in a hurry. At all.
The good part about mammograms: they have big jars of candy in the room with the machine. I loaded up. Once I got my mammogram, there was again a worried technician. She never told me anything, however, just sent me across the hall to get an ultrasound. For some reason, this time I wasn’t worried. I think it was because everyone else had been so positive about it being nothing. Also, I was about to be very late for a final and I was ready to get out of there.
After the ultrasound, the head of radiation came in himself to talk to me. Again, this should have alarmed me, but didn’t. He asked if I was there alone. I said yes, and I have 10 minutes to get to my final. He asked me if I had family or friends. I said yes, I have both. I told him the lump was scheduled to come out in five days’ time. He expressed great relief.
None of this phased me. I had already surrounded myself with a bubble of denial.
I got to my final with no time to spare. And I aced it.
