It's Just Like the Titanic...

I'm sure it sounds strange.  Odd even.  But I can explain.  The sinking of my Titanic started with a mammogram.  A mammogram that my gynecologist wanted me to have the same day that she felt the lump in my breast.  My very first mammogram at the age of 39- December 19, 2013. I will never forget what a beautiful day it was- the sun was shining and I kept thinking of how amazing it was for December weather.  I couldn't get an appointment that day, so I had to wait- 3 days. The more pictures they took, the more the wanted.  They kept shuffling me back and forth from the waiting room to the "picture room".  And with every trip back down that hallway, my anxiety got stronger.  By the time I had walked that hallway 3 times, I was shredding Kleenex all over the place.  (It wasn't my last trip down that hallway that day.)

Honestly, I already knew even before the mammogram- I had cancer. The fact that I left the gynecologists office with a referral to a breast surgeon in my hand didn't do anything to weaken my theory.  I had read enough online and done enough research I knew.  I knew that I hadn't felt good in months.  I just knew.  My husband insisted it was a cyst when he just about forced me to call and schedule an appointment.  He even told me that they would drain it the day I went to see my gynecologist.  I'm here to tell you, it didn't go down that way.

The mammogram was followed that same day by an ultrasound.  I strained my neck something fierce trying to get a glimpse of my breasts on the screen.  I kept asking the technician questions- questions she refused to answer.   Turned out I didn't need to do that.  There was a radiologist waiting to see me post ultrasound goop.  And there it was- the iceberg.  My butt hadn't even hit the chair when a women who was young enough to still have teenage acne just spit it right out.  "This is definitely cancer."   I was shocked, stunned, speechless even.  I just looked at her.  I still to this day have no idea what came after those 4 words, but she did continue to talk.  May I also say that her delivery of the worst news I've ever gotten sucked!  (And only backed up my theory that she was still old enough to have pimples.)

I would have had the surgeon on the phone that same day, but it was 5:00 when I left there, and frankly, between hearing the C word for the first time in conjunction with my body and the throbbing in my butt from it crashing to the chair, I really couldn't focus.  My first order of business the next morning (Friday) was calling the surgeons office.   They didn't have my films yet, so I had to wait for a call-back.  It didn't take long, I was told that I the surgeon was squeezing me in on Monday afternoon.... "Oh no!- the iceberg is getting closer!"

I was not brave enough to walk into a surgeons office by myself, but thankfully, I do have a very good friend who was brave enough to accompany me.  I was not happy to hear that my lump was going to require a biopsy, which had to be scheduled for another day- and because of the holiday, I was going to have to be left wondering about my lump.  The surgeon positively refused to commit to anything until she had done the biopsy.  Having a biopsy terrified me, I hate needles, with a passion and usually pass out when needles enter my body.  (Just another reason that there was no possible way that I could be a cancer patient!)

... To be continued.