Okay, so I have to have a stereotactic biopsy. What in the world is that? And where do I go for that? And I have to bring my films with me? Do I just pick up a CD? How does this all work?
The first thing I had to do was GET ORGANIZED. I urge anyone who is every given this kind of news to go to Staples or Office Depot or wherever, and buy a large three ring binder. And some paper, a whole bunch of dividers with tabby things, and clear plastic protector sleeves. If you are organized, you know where you are going, why you're going there, what you will need for your visit, and more importantly, WHAT COMES NEXT.
I was instructed by a friend who had a similar experience to write down the name of every person you talk to, their phone number (in case you are transferred), what you discussed, and what you (or they) need to do next. The phone conversations are numerous and detailed, and you need to know at the end of the day exactly who is responsible for scheduling appointments, requesting or obtaining medical records or God knows what else.
I learned very quickly that this was going to save my bacon when there was a mixup with mammography films. I was told that I was going to pick up a burned CD of images, and I spoke to someone else who told me that you have to bring in PRINTED films (which takes a couple of hours, not minutes) for a biopsy. Little mistakes like that can be costly when you're working with a sensitive timeline.
Fast forward to Thursday, the day before my biopsy. I walked into Palm Beach Radiology with my films, fully expecting to just drop them off and return the following day. Instead, the receptionist informed me that Dr. Donald Goodwin was going to want to speak with me now, during his lunch. Excuse me? I think we all have known lots and lots of physicians throughout our lives. Have you ever met one who wanted to have a conversation with you: 1) on a day when you are not a scheduled patient and 2) during their lunch? Me either.
I entered what resembled a NASA command center, with monitors (could have been 4, could have been 8?) spanning a 3-sided desk like station, the room dark, to enable the magician ---I mean doctor --- to clearly visualize the alien images displayed. In this moment, this soft spoken man set the tone for my entire experience. He was patient, informative and direct. He looked me in the eye, he answered my questions, and he listened to me. He asked about my son, even asking to know his name. He explained what I could expect the next day (and beyond).
A stereotactic biopsy is a biopsy that is performed while you are cradled tenderly by a mammography machine. Well, maybe more like smashed and splayed. The procedure itself wasn't that bad. It was a little noisy, and my armpit hurt from a metal plate jamming as far as possible into my axilla. That's about it. In the grand scheme of things, a piece of cake. The samples removed were extensive. They looked like chicken fat, because you know I insisted on seeing them. As a parting gift, they implanted a teeny, tiny little metal bow-tie shaped clip into my breast, and I was left with a nice little bruise.
The radiologist instructed the nurse on which pathology lab to send my samples to, citing that they were fast (yay!) and thorough (yay again!). I should expect to hear from him within three to ten days.
Afterwards, I remember having a strange feeling in my breast. Was it the clip? Was it the brutal assault of the needle and suction? What was it? I couldn't escape this new physical sensation, like a dull zing... does that even make sense? I wondered how long it would last, and I couldn't wait for it to stop.
In the meantime, I started talking to friends. Who is the best breast surgeon in town? In Florida? What about plastic surgeons? Oncologists? Would I need all of these people, or would I just need to increase surveillance? (Oh, that's how those in the breast cancer realm refer to diagnostic procedures such as mammography, ultrasound, MRI, etc.) I wanted to be ready.
The first thing I had to do was GET ORGANIZED. I urge anyone who is every given this kind of news to go to Staples or Office Depot or wherever, and buy a large three ring binder. And some paper, a whole bunch of dividers with tabby things, and clear plastic protector sleeves. If you are organized, you know where you are going, why you're going there, what you will need for your visit, and more importantly, WHAT COMES NEXT.
I was instructed by a friend who had a similar experience to write down the name of every person you talk to, their phone number (in case you are transferred), what you discussed, and what you (or they) need to do next. The phone conversations are numerous and detailed, and you need to know at the end of the day exactly who is responsible for scheduling appointments, requesting or obtaining medical records or God knows what else.
I learned very quickly that this was going to save my bacon when there was a mixup with mammography films. I was told that I was going to pick up a burned CD of images, and I spoke to someone else who told me that you have to bring in PRINTED films (which takes a couple of hours, not minutes) for a biopsy. Little mistakes like that can be costly when you're working with a sensitive timeline.
Fast forward to Thursday, the day before my biopsy. I walked into Palm Beach Radiology with my films, fully expecting to just drop them off and return the following day. Instead, the receptionist informed me that Dr. Donald Goodwin was going to want to speak with me now, during his lunch. Excuse me? I think we all have known lots and lots of physicians throughout our lives. Have you ever met one who wanted to have a conversation with you: 1) on a day when you are not a scheduled patient and 2) during their lunch? Me either.
I entered what resembled a NASA command center, with monitors (could have been 4, could have been 8?) spanning a 3-sided desk like station, the room dark, to enable the magician ---I mean doctor --- to clearly visualize the alien images displayed. In this moment, this soft spoken man set the tone for my entire experience. He was patient, informative and direct. He looked me in the eye, he answered my questions, and he listened to me. He asked about my son, even asking to know his name. He explained what I could expect the next day (and beyond).
A stereotactic biopsy is a biopsy that is performed while you are cradled tenderly by a mammography machine. Well, maybe more like smashed and splayed. The procedure itself wasn't that bad. It was a little noisy, and my armpit hurt from a metal plate jamming as far as possible into my axilla. That's about it. In the grand scheme of things, a piece of cake. The samples removed were extensive. They looked like chicken fat, because you know I insisted on seeing them. As a parting gift, they implanted a teeny, tiny little metal bow-tie shaped clip into my breast, and I was left with a nice little bruise.
The radiologist instructed the nurse on which pathology lab to send my samples to, citing that they were fast (yay!) and thorough (yay again!). I should expect to hear from him within three to ten days.
Afterwards, I remember having a strange feeling in my breast. Was it the clip? Was it the brutal assault of the needle and suction? What was it? I couldn't escape this new physical sensation, like a dull zing... does that even make sense? I wondered how long it would last, and I couldn't wait for it to stop.
In the meantime, I started talking to friends. Who is the best breast surgeon in town? In Florida? What about plastic surgeons? Oncologists? Would I need all of these people, or would I just need to increase surveillance? (Oh, that's how those in the breast cancer realm refer to diagnostic procedures such as mammography, ultrasound, MRI, etc.) I wanted to be ready.
Comments
Post a Comment