The last two weeks haven’t been comfortable on an existential level, and it’s all thanks to my boobs. I got the call from the Breast Clinic to come in for further screening and a little bit of my world dropped away. And yes, the odds were that everything was fine, and the medical profession were only being hyper-vigilant, but then again, that won’t stop the angst of not knowing roaming around your head.
A woman’s relationship with her breasts is an intricate, often difficult one.
Mine sprang out of my chest when I was about thirteen. It felt like they came from nowhere. I’ve been wearing underwired bras from not long after that. I like to bind them in with minimiser bras, keeping the bounce and the overspill at bay. They’re a bit of a nuisance at times, getting in the way when you’re running, or wanting to slide into narrow spaces. They’re where food gets caught and where kittens like to sit. Spare change and train tickets are often slipped into my bra – aptly named my ‘special pocket’. I have a favourite memory of babysitting a friend’s six-month-old son. He was sitting on my stomach, when he looked over, reached down and fondled my breasts. “Nope, mate – no food there.” He then proceeded to swan dive into my cleavage and make some satisfied noises.
Men - all alike from birth.
Various partners have commented that you could get lost in there for a week if you wanted. I’ve always tended to hide mine away. Owning a double-D cup set means you’re open to stares and comments, often unwanted, and unnecessary. Men are silly creatures. After all, they’re just boobs.
They’re a part of my physical identity. I describe myself as broad shouldered and long legged, with big tits. If I was slimmer, I might have Jessica Rabbit’s figure, if Jessica Rabbit was built a bit more like a fridge.
So, telling me to come back for some more screening sent me into a bit of a panic. Of course, I knew the numbers were in my favour. About one in ten women will be called back for more screening. Well over 90% of women called back are clear of cancer. Or if there was something there, it can be quickly investigated and dealt with. The Breast Clinic err on the side of caution.
Regardless, the irrational side of my head was going to all sorts of places. If I needed a mastectomy, they should take both – I couldn’t handle being lop-sided. Or I might lose my hair. And who would pick me up from the hospital? I’ve spent the last two weeks quelling these thoughts, buoyed by the knowledge that I was probably fine. But still, in these two weeks, I stopped planning my holiday abroad – wanting to wait for a decisive answer before setting any more plans in motion. Why shell out money if I’m not going to be able to go abroad?
Friends who’ve received call-backs were supportive. Of those who’ve faced breast cancer, they also repeated that the numbers were definitely on my side. Get it early and all is well.
I had the call-back appointment this morning.
St Vincent’s Hospital Breast Clinic is as utilitarian as it gets, all beige and plastic prefabricated chairs encased within a Victorian Era bulding. The woman behind the desk was friendly and kind. There was no wait to see the nurse, another friendly, kind, middled-aged woman.
They told me what to expect. They’d found a small spot on my right breast on the initial mammogram. Today, they’d be doing another mammogram with a higher resolution machine. After that, I’d see the specialist radiographer and more than likely have an ultrasound. Depending on the results of these tests, a needle biopsy may be required, and that would be done today too if required.
The normal questions were asked. Could I feel any lumps? No. Any changes in my breasts? No. Any strange feelings in my breasts? No. Any changes to medication? No. Was I on HRT? Yes, and don’t even think about taking that away from me.
I signed the consents and was taken to a change room, where I was supplied with a bathrobe and a basket in which I could put my things.
“Do you have a big bathrobe?” I asked.
“Sorry, they’re all the same size. We’ve been asking for bigger ones for years. If it doesn’t fit, put your top back on.”
Needless to say, the bathrobe didn’t fit over my shoulders. My bra went into the basket with the bathrobe and my calico shopper. I put my top back on.
A few minutes later, I was called in for the mammogram. The radiographer was again, professional and kind. After warning her that I’m really ticklish and that I’m better if you tell me where you’re going to touch before you touch me, she explained everything in detail. It was a much better experience than the last mammogram which left me discombobulated and out for blood.
These images would be checked the Radiography doctor.
A bit more waiting and I was called into another room. The radiographer and a surgeon this time.
Turns out the surgeon was in training and there to observe. Nearly shit myself over that one initially.
Thankfully, on looking at the second set of films, there was nothing to investigate. The white spot was more than likely a fold in the breast tissue due to the way the last mammogram was done. They did an ultrasound to be doubly sure and nothing was found.
I got the all clear within minutes. And instantly felt about 20 kilograms lighter.
I was in and out in an hour. I put my bra back on, along with my top and hoodie. I said goodbye to the lady at the desk, giving her a big grin. She told me that she’d keep fighting to get some larger bath robes. If I’m honest, I was just as happy in my own top which hadn’t been through the hospital laundry on a daily basis for many years. I walked out into the bleak Melbourne morning, intent on finding a coffee.
I’m grateful to live in a country where they actively breast screen on the public purse. I’m grateful for the care and attention this service provides. And I’m thankful that I don’t have to go and see them again for two years.
Best of all, I'm glad I'm clear of breast cancer.
We really live in a lucky country.
And now I’ll resume planning my trip to the U.K. and France in October.
1 comment:
Great news! )kath)
Post a Comment