In September of 2013, I called to make an appointment with my gynecologist for the dreaded yearly exam. I have the most fabulous gynecologist. No, I won't give you her name, because it's already ridiculously hard enough to make an appointment with her, and I don't need any more patient competition. I was on hold for what seemed like FOREVER, and I was able to finally make an appointment for JANUARY 10 of the following year. Really? (And yes, she's that awesome that I'm willing to get in line months and months in advance just to see her.)
While I was on hold, the same recording played over and over. The recorded lady's silky smooth voice offers a variety of other add-on services: digital mammography, laser hair removal, botox and fillers. She sounds more Saks Fifth Avenue than OBGYN Specialists, and she just makes everything sounds so damn appealing.
I decided to tack on a mammogram to my visit. I know I'm only 39, and I haven't reached the magical age of 40, when it becomes more of a baseline requirement. Sure, why not? Who knows when I would be able to make it back in.
January 10th came, a Friday afternoon, and I went to the appointment. She and I chat like old friends, and somehow through the sharing of our kids, restaurants, and friends, she manages to take a very thorough account of what is going on in my life medically. At the conclusion of the physical exam, I padded down the hall to the mammography suite and changed into -- get this -- a heated gown. I mean, this place really knows how to do it. The nice lady placed me into the apparatus and snapped a few images, and then it was over. I had noticed a sign on the door stating that the radiologist was out of town on vacation, and that all images would be read upon his return on Sunday. I imagined him salt water fishing, for some reason, out in the Atlantic, holding a big dolphin or a sailfish.
I thought that when I was sent back into the lounge that the experience was over, and I was a little surprised when the tech came back into the room. She just needed some clearer images of the right breast. Yikes, I guess I wasn't really holding as still as I had imagined the first time. They're all: "Hold your breath," and "okay now, be really still." I can never hold my breath for long enough, and I start to exhale before they tell me that I can.
The day came to an end, somehow, and I suppose the weekend passed.
On Monday morning, January 14, I was driving my son to school at 7:30. I will always remember that we were on Georgia Avenue, an industrial street in town, in front of a design store, when the song "Live Like You Were Dying" came on the radio. I have always thought that the song was touching and uplifting, but I remember vividly taking pause and really listening to the words. It really is a sweet song. Thanks, Tim McGraw.
I take the boy to school, go to work, and start the day. At 8:30, while treating two patients, I miss a call from my gynecologist. That's strange. Oh wow, she actually left a message. I checked the message, and I knew instantly that my life would never be the same. It wasn't necessarily the words that she spoke, but the tone in her voice. I knew. The radiologist emailed her over the weekend as an urgent priority... diffuse pleomorphic calcifications, highly suspicious for malignancy... DCIS... schedule a stereotactic biopsy.
I somehow was able to call her back, get a referral for a radiologist who could perform such a biopsy, schedule the biopsy, and call my husband. I was also able to google. I discovered within the span of a few minutes that the 95% of the time, pleomorphic calcifications are malignant. The calcifications are named for their shape, which resembles broken glass, and they are usually indicative for DCIS, or Ductal Carcinoma In Situ. And I knew. I knew that this was what I had. I could hear it in her voice, and I could feel it in every cell in my body.
And I began to make a plan. I had to get it together.
While I was on hold, the same recording played over and over. The recorded lady's silky smooth voice offers a variety of other add-on services: digital mammography, laser hair removal, botox and fillers. She sounds more Saks Fifth Avenue than OBGYN Specialists, and she just makes everything sounds so damn appealing.
I decided to tack on a mammogram to my visit. I know I'm only 39, and I haven't reached the magical age of 40, when it becomes more of a baseline requirement. Sure, why not? Who knows when I would be able to make it back in.
January 10th came, a Friday afternoon, and I went to the appointment. She and I chat like old friends, and somehow through the sharing of our kids, restaurants, and friends, she manages to take a very thorough account of what is going on in my life medically. At the conclusion of the physical exam, I padded down the hall to the mammography suite and changed into -- get this -- a heated gown. I mean, this place really knows how to do it. The nice lady placed me into the apparatus and snapped a few images, and then it was over. I had noticed a sign on the door stating that the radiologist was out of town on vacation, and that all images would be read upon his return on Sunday. I imagined him salt water fishing, for some reason, out in the Atlantic, holding a big dolphin or a sailfish.
I thought that when I was sent back into the lounge that the experience was over, and I was a little surprised when the tech came back into the room. She just needed some clearer images of the right breast. Yikes, I guess I wasn't really holding as still as I had imagined the first time. They're all: "Hold your breath," and "okay now, be really still." I can never hold my breath for long enough, and I start to exhale before they tell me that I can.
The day came to an end, somehow, and I suppose the weekend passed.
On Monday morning, January 14, I was driving my son to school at 7:30. I will always remember that we were on Georgia Avenue, an industrial street in town, in front of a design store, when the song "Live Like You Were Dying" came on the radio. I have always thought that the song was touching and uplifting, but I remember vividly taking pause and really listening to the words. It really is a sweet song. Thanks, Tim McGraw.
I take the boy to school, go to work, and start the day. At 8:30, while treating two patients, I miss a call from my gynecologist. That's strange. Oh wow, she actually left a message. I checked the message, and I knew instantly that my life would never be the same. It wasn't necessarily the words that she spoke, but the tone in her voice. I knew. The radiologist emailed her over the weekend as an urgent priority... diffuse pleomorphic calcifications, highly suspicious for malignancy... DCIS... schedule a stereotactic biopsy.
I somehow was able to call her back, get a referral for a radiologist who could perform such a biopsy, schedule the biopsy, and call my husband. I was also able to google. I discovered within the span of a few minutes that the 95% of the time, pleomorphic calcifications are malignant. The calcifications are named for their shape, which resembles broken glass, and they are usually indicative for DCIS, or Ductal Carcinoma In Situ. And I knew. I knew that this was what I had. I could hear it in her voice, and I could feel it in every cell in my body.
And I began to make a plan. I had to get it together.
Whit.
ReplyDeleteI found your blog on a mutual friend's Facebook page. I hope that's okay. I'm so glad I did.
I had no idea of your diagnosis and current battle.
There have been great strides made in the treatment of breast cancer. I will be praying for you and hope that God will use your experience to encourage and educate others.
Kim and I don't fool around when it comes to breast cancer. We are so aware of our bodies and any changes that may occur. I'm glad you followed your instinct to have that mammogram. Hugs to you!