I had read up on some random stuff about the BRCA genes, and my level of worry had always been elevated. However, my gynecologists always assured me that the gene mutations were less likely to be passed down through the father's side, and for that reason no one ever saw the need in having me take the BRCA test.
Regardless…my gut never truly believed them, and I always immediately ran to a doctor whenever I felt the need to be comforted by a good squishing.
I'd had 3 mammograms already...since I turned 35.
I requested my first baseline screening because my paternal grandmother had breast cancer at 70, a paternal aunt had breast cancer at 55, and another paternal aunt was killed by ovarian cancer at age 50.
The second mammo was a diagnostic screening on my left breast because of some sharp pains I was experiencing...and the third was again on my left breast for a "palpable mass" that wound up being an "area of trauma" caused by a seat belt from a recent fender bender.
Anyway, as I turned on to the street where the Cancer Pavilion stood, I instantly felt sick to my stomach. Just walking in to a building emblazoned with a glaring shout out to cancer was enough to send chills up my back every time. Almost like I was jinxing myself by entering...it was wicked...ready to swallow me up.
So, here I was for mammogram #4. Glad I didn't forget my punch card...I hear that after the 4th visit, you get a free ice cream.
(with sprinkles pleaseI)
I'm usually the youngest one in the waiting area, and I feel that people take notice.
"Which one of these is not like the others."
But, no matter what our ages...I guarantee that all of us are holding our breath, and praying for the next hour to pass by without incident...hoping that we all ace the big test and can go back to living another 12 months unscathed.
I'm always impressed at how welcoming the second (so close you can feel the squish) waiting room is. There are plush changing rooms, coffee and tea, current magazines, space heaters and a snack basket. They provide all of the comfy necessities to coax you in to relaxation...and just when you begin to melt in to your third sip of joe and marvel at the latest celebrity gossip, a nurse calls your name then leads you down the hall to the room with the giant vise.
My left boob was flattened in to pancake oblivion...and...oh?...
shit...what the...?
How EMBARRASSING!!!
You have GOT to be kidding me.
It was FLYING, PROJECTILE, SUPER-SOAKER, BREAST MILK????
I couldn't stifle a weird knee-jerk reaction to laugh.
The technician gasped, then mentioned calmly that it was "definitely a first for her".
For HER?
Holy Crap!
She handed me the box of tissues and I mopped up her arm (poor lady), myself, and the machine.
The two of us proceeding with the formalities in a tiny room that was suddenly filled with nervous giggling and sopped up body fluid.
The main thought that was entwined within my giggles, was the recollection of an article I had read...cysts can grow and press on the milk ducts causing them to leak. That had to be the cause. Yep, I've still got my game face on. I'm still not too worried. I said a million sorries to the woman.
Embarrassed, I shuffled down the corridor to ultrasound.
As I laid on the table, the sonogram guru glided her wand over my jelly slicked lump. Expressionless, she stood up and left the room.
Besides her withholding the basic social graces, she was making me tense up and I didn't like it.
A minute passed and in walked the radiologist in charge. He remembered me from last time. "You're back," he says..."for the same thing?" I told him no...it was a brand new hypochondriac's manifestation. He smiled and took over the exam.
Deliberately moving the wand in to position, he paused...took a long look in to the monitor...then asked the golden question..."what's your family history?" The pores opened up on my palms and my hands became wet, my heart was thudding, and my throat swallowed a hard ball of air...I then shared with him my pedigree.
And in wondrous relief, he started singing words that were music to my ears..."it doesn't look like cancer"....then the record scratched..."but, what are your plans for today? We have a cancellation and I would like you to have a biopsy to be on the safe side if that's okay."
(CRAP)
He went and called my gyno to keep her in the loop and checked with my insurance for clearance.
Prior to the procedure, I signed a consent form and had my blood pressure taken. Surprise! It was sky high. When asked if I was nervous, I shot them an Oscar worthy look of "DUH".
The monitor was positioned next to my face, so I had no other option but to send out for some junior mints and settle in for the show. The opening credits rolled...emerging from a flat, gray snow, a dark jelly bean shaped shadow appeared...and in super slow motion, I watched as the sleek, silver biopsy needle pushed through my breast tissue to take a few loud, popping bites out of the perfectly outlined, black blob on the screen.
I was fascinated really, making small talk with the audience in the room...plus it was virtually painless. Not bad at all. Little did I know that I was staring in to the face of death.
BRCA gene mutations can be passed down by fathers too...
http://www.medpagetoday.com/HematologyOncology/BreastCancer/22928
