A couple weeks ago, I had an appointment with my (gasp!) girl doc. I had been having some pain in my chest-area, and decided to get it checked out. To make a short story shorter, she referred me to a breast specialist at The West Clinic for a more comprehensive breast ultrasound.
Well, like any optimistic female would do when referred to a cancer clinic for additional testing, DURING Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I went ahead and made final decisions on what flower arrangements I would have at my funeral services (calle lilies, roses, and hydrangeas with a plethora of accent foilage) and narrowed the plot of land for my final resting place down to two, possibly three locations. And the 4 hours (4! FOUR… HOURS…H.O.U.R.S.) it took to do the ultrasound and multiple mammograms, I used to plan out my haunting tactics on Bryant’s future wife and the girls’ boyfriends.
(Jesus has quite the sense of humor, doesn’t he? Because OF COURSE He would send me to a cancer clinic at the end of October, where I’ve had roughy 30 days to be bombarded with pink, Susan G. Komen marketing and “Save the Ta-Ta’s” bumper stickers.)
I mentioned above they did multiple mammograms. Let me tell you why… it’s a fun story. <sarcasm>
After enduring the strange procedure, I went and sat in a back waiting room with a room full of half-clothed, grumpy women.
(In their defense, the gowns we were all forced to wear instead of our clothes, were only a slight comfort in the 32 degree room they kept us in. And everyone’s “girls” had just been squished by a 2-ton machine. And then, if they were anything like me that day, they had to wait an eternity for results. So bring on the grumpiness.)
The small room slowly emptied out, until I was the last remaining. After scouring Instagram, Facebook, Pintrest, and about half-way into my 3rd or 4th mindless magazine, a nurse finally came to get me. She took me back into the mammography room where she informed me they wanted to take more photos because (this is a direct quote….)
“The doctor saw some white flecks on your images and that usually means cancer.”
Hold the phone.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t there a standard procedure before the C word is dropped in a place like this?
I mean, aren’t you supposed to be seated in front of the doctor’s large oak desk, with your loving and supportive spouse next to you, and a box of Kleenex within reach?
As opposed to the alternative, which is what I was doing? Standing, topless, in a dark, humming room with a random technician casually tossing the C-bomb over her shoulder in your general direction as she punched some buttons on a 8 foot boob machine?
And aren’t you supposed to be older than 31, with a history of breast cancer in your family, and your Last Will & Testament and Life Insurance ready and waiting?
There are certain things that are SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN at this point, right??
I was sure of it, but knew it wasn’t happening correctly to me.
Looking back, I don’t really remember what I said in response to her C-bomb, but I’m pretty sure whatever it was gave the tech the immediate impression she needed to redo the pictures QUICKLY before someone lost their mind (me) and their job (her).
So, after the 4 hours of testing (have I mentioned it took FOUR hours??) and retesting, my results came back.
The white flecks they saw on my original images?
Seriously? The technician had me one step shy of handing over my credit card for a beautiful mahogany casket because of deodorant?
I have to admit, when I was told this, I literally felt my knees go slightly weak from the waves of relief flooding through them. Then the doctor showed up and gave me a clean bill of health, and stated they think my pain could be hormonal.
(But they’re not super sure… because it doesn’t follow normal hormonal patterns, so they want to see me back in 3 months for another day and a half of my life to test everything again. January is going to be fun.)
Regardless, I am extremely thankful for the doctor and nurses at the West Clinic for the extra attention they gave me (I did mention it was 4 hours worth, right?) in making sure everything was correct.
So, from my own little experience with it, I’m saying here’s to the color PINK!
And a word to the wise…
Ladies, I recommend not wearing deodorant when you go in for your mammograms. It’ll save you some piece of mind and funeral home directors the excitement of having a new client.
Note: I am fully aware with the fact breast cancer is extremely serious and not a matter to write or talk about flippantly, as some may feel I just did. However, I am a child. And I have a default coping mechanism of sarcasm that I often cannot dispose of in serious situations. My apologies and deepest condolences to those who’s cancer center visits did not turn out as positive as mine. I think we can all agree that Cancer is an asshole.