This past week a dear friend of mine—the same breast cancer survivor who rigidly watched the breast cancer movie memoir, Dear Talula, with me—found a lump in her breast. Again. She told me about it a few days ago, just after she'd had it checked by her doctor. She told me he'd scheduled her for a biopsy the next day.
I freaked out. That sounded serious! All my confidence, my positive attitude, wisdom, whatever, leapt out the window. Suddenly, I was terrified, and not just for my friend, whom I very much value. I was also terrified for me.
Our experiences have been uncannily alike: My friend was diagnosed with breast cancer a year before I was. She had a similar diagnosis—early invasive breast cancer. She went to the same surgeon, endured the same number of radiation hits in the same facility overseen by the same radiotherapist. My tumor had been about the same size as hers and we'd both had a lumpectomy and sentinel node dissection. Cancer was not found in our nodes. It had been only three-and-a-half years since her diagnosis (two-and-a-half years since mine), and I felt as if this were, if not happening to me, suddenly about to.
I insisted on going with her to the biopsy, but she wouldn't let me. She said that she handles these things by numbing herself and going blank. She marches through it, does whatever is required, without a word—so unlike me, questioning and researching every decision. “If I need surgery,” she said, “please, please go with me. But this 'biopsy' may be just a sonogram. I can do this.”
Her appointment was at 10:45. I barely slept that night. The next day I stayed home, waiting for her call, lest she need me to pick her up from the hospital. The call came at around 2:00 p.m.: “I'm okay!”
“You are?!”
“Yes! The doctor said that the breast often gets denser and lumpier after radiation. It was not another cancer.”
Well, okay, hoorah, yes, and that had happened to me, too. I'd also been worried a few months ago, when I thought my breast felt lumpier than I remembered. Several check-up appointments were coming up, so I mentioned it, and I was told the same thing—that what felt like a lump was scar tissue from surgery and denser breast tissue from radiation.
I do breast self-exams every month, and sometimes it's hard to tell if something is or isn't the dreaded lump. How do I know when to go flying off to the doctor's office and when it's just, well, “nothing to worry about?” I have no criteria for this, and I think my friend was right to have it checked. We both know that if the news is unwelcome, sooner is better than later.
Meanwhile, I am breathing again, and I've learned something about myself: Humor and hope may keep me kickin', but I'm still scared.
I freaked out. That sounded serious! All my confidence, my positive attitude, wisdom, whatever, leapt out the window. Suddenly, I was terrified, and not just for my friend, whom I very much value. I was also terrified for me.
Our experiences have been uncannily alike: My friend was diagnosed with breast cancer a year before I was. She had a similar diagnosis—early invasive breast cancer. She went to the same surgeon, endured the same number of radiation hits in the same facility overseen by the same radiotherapist. My tumor had been about the same size as hers and we'd both had a lumpectomy and sentinel node dissection. Cancer was not found in our nodes. It had been only three-and-a-half years since her diagnosis (two-and-a-half years since mine), and I felt as if this were, if not happening to me, suddenly about to.
I insisted on going with her to the biopsy, but she wouldn't let me. She said that she handles these things by numbing herself and going blank. She marches through it, does whatever is required, without a word—so unlike me, questioning and researching every decision. “If I need surgery,” she said, “please, please go with me. But this 'biopsy' may be just a sonogram. I can do this.”
Her appointment was at 10:45. I barely slept that night. The next day I stayed home, waiting for her call, lest she need me to pick her up from the hospital. The call came at around 2:00 p.m.: “I'm okay!”
“You are?!”
“Yes! The doctor said that the breast often gets denser and lumpier after radiation. It was not another cancer.”
Well, okay, hoorah, yes, and that had happened to me, too. I'd also been worried a few months ago, when I thought my breast felt lumpier than I remembered. Several check-up appointments were coming up, so I mentioned it, and I was told the same thing—that what felt like a lump was scar tissue from surgery and denser breast tissue from radiation.
I do breast self-exams every month, and sometimes it's hard to tell if something is or isn't the dreaded lump. How do I know when to go flying off to the doctor's office and when it's just, well, “nothing to worry about?” I have no criteria for this, and I think my friend was right to have it checked. We both know that if the news is unwelcome, sooner is better than later.
Meanwhile, I am breathing again, and I've learned something about myself: Humor and hope may keep me kickin', but I'm still scared.
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What the community is saying...
MY ARM HURTS!!!: note to self....
Posted 11/20 Comments (2)
Dear Friends that will have LUMPECTOMY...
