One little itch turned into a curious rub, which transformed into a slight state of panic. Within the outer perimeter of my left breast I discovered what felt like a marble rolling around. As a 27 year old woman the last thought one wants to contemplate is the concept of breast cancer.
Three years before my aunt, who is Thai, received the diagnosis of breast cancer at the age of thirty-six. Only been married to my uncle for a few years they began their matrimony with endless doctor visits and kemo therapy and natural remedies and excruciating pain. Finally, my aunt's treatment had been completed leaving her hairless, weaker, but a little bit wiser. There is not a moment of regret for the illness. The experience tightened the bond of my aunt and uncle's marriage learning a whole new appreciation for each other's love. My aunt also has a broaden perspective for the importance of life and love. The potential scare of loosing life helped her to cherish every waking moment. Though there is a five year window anticipating the renewal of the cancer cells, my aunt and uncle live each day to the fullest in love.
After much debate between my head and reason then searching for clinics that accepted new patients, I reluctantly conceded to receiving another opinion. Suddenly, I faced the possibility that my entire life might change at the sound of one word--- malignant. Going to school in pursuit of a nursing degree could be placed on hold. Kemo could become my lifestyle. Medication and frequent doctor visits would control my daily schedule. How in the world would I finance the struggle. Sure I have insurance, but would I want to work to keep it? Then there is being alone. The therapy sessions alone. Crying over the procedures alone. Would anyone want me after radiation treatment and hair loss and shriveled. I have decided it would be easier to die of the disease then try to fight for living. The repercussions I dread most.
For a week, I imagine how my life will be different. I question my character desiring to overcome the battle. Can I have children? Will I want to marry? Can I continue to becoming a nurse? Will I have the resilience for life as my aunt? I do not have the courage to answer these questions.
Monday morning arrived for my appointment with the nurse practitioner. While performing her exam if she finds any cause for alarm a second opinion plus a mammogram will need to be arranged. I find a woman's center that welcomes new patients. When I enter the waiting room I notice I am the only woman not pregnant. I feel odd and misplaced as I fill out my paper work. The women around me are looking forward to a new life full of joy and anticipation with the child to be. I sit in fear and anxiety should I hear the worst. Here amongst the soccer-mom types watching the View and Dr. Phil I huddle to myself knowing full well these women are nothing like me. The realization makes me feel uncomfortable and invisible to them.
"Catherine." To those unfamiliar with me I am always known by my first name. I slowly gather my possessions to follow the nurse to an exam room where there is an exam bed with stirrups. The nurse introduces herself then verifies my purpose for the visit. She asks me to remove my shirt and bra to be replaced with a gown. She walks out.
As I am removing my garments I look around the cold sterile room. Not much warmth to offer comfort to the needy. I complete my exchange then sit myself on the bed to wrestle with my thoughts as I wait. It seems as if the nurse prolongs my agony for hours before reentering the room. She apologizes for my wait as she washes her hands. She asks me to lay back to lift my arm on the same side of the breast she exams while she congratulates me for investigating the matter at such a young age. I am thinking, I better because if it can happen it can happen to me. It occurs to me I have not shaved my armpits in a while. Embarrassment seeps in. Her hands move around my breasts like I have no form and my breasts are actually mounds of bread dough to be mended and poked with no emotion or cause for care. When several minutes pass of this procedures the nurse states she is almost 99 percent sure the lump is benign. Most likely it is a form of a cyst created by too much consumption of caffeine and chocolate, so she says. I breathe a little easier. However, just to be sure, since I have taken the time thus far, it is wise to see a surgeon to do further tests on the content of the lump. I agree for her to make the arrangements. But what if the surgeon wants to remove it? What does that mean?
Just about a month passes until the next appointment. I have cut off just about all caffeine switching to decaf coffee. I consume very little chocolate making fruit my main sweet indulgence, like cherries and blueberries. I also drink more juices. For the last few weeks I rarely occupy any time to the thought of my it. After some internet research I convince myself the it is nothing. The lump is movable, smooth, and soft- indicating benign. The material I read of malignant cases are irregular in shape, well attached to the tissue, and hard in form. My mind feels at ease.
However, there are days while getting dressed or in the shower I search for its existence. Just when I think it has disappeared I rediscover it. It! This seems a safe identification of its shape. It is neither good nor evil. It is not cruel enough to be a monster, yet still enough of a nuisance to be considered an irritation. Why not title it the marble since that is what it feels like.
Time moves on. Each day passes like the next. There are days of frustration, days of joy, and just average ordinary days. Then the 20th of June arrives. After dealing with scheduling conflicts with work I am able to make the doctor's appointment and to work on time.
I arrive at the doctor's office thirty minutes early to start all my paper work. The office is called a surgical group, which encourages me to believe I could be visiting a clinic that specializes in plastic surgery. Although, when I walk into the waiting room I am a little baffled. I bring the average age down to about 65. I feel childish feeling out my forms, like maybe I am actually in an infirmary surrounded by approaching death. The lobby is full of medication magazines. Montel is rounding up his show about spirit guides where then the Price is Right begins. I finish my medical history, which really amounts to nothing. I start filling out my financial aid forms for school.
"Catherine!" To her myself addressed as Catherine always catches me off guard. I am behind a corner that blocks the view from the entry door. "Catherine!" The nurse cannot see me. "I'm right here," I say sort of softly. The nurse neither hears me nor sees me. "Is there a Catherine here?" I am trying to quickly round up my things when I repeat myself. "Catherine!" This time in a much louder voice with a hint of annoyance, "I am coming," causing all eyes in the room to fall on me. An older nurse moves forward from around the corner to finally spot me. All my possessions are obtained and I follow the nurse through a long hall-way to an exam room.
Another nurse, she is much younger with a kind smile, meets us. I place my book bag and purse beside the exam bed then have a seat in a chair. My doctor rushes in. He does not appear to be very old, 40 tops. He seems rather surprised I am so young. He excuses himself and the younger nurse invites me to the adjoining restroom to change my top. Before preparing the ultrasound machine she hands me a folded paper towel. I unfold it to find it is really a paper towel jacket that opens loosely in the front. The nurses leave the room so I grab my camera to photograph myself in the restroom.
The doctor comes in again, but he does not see me. I confuse him. just when he is about to leave I reenter the exam room trying to conceal my camera. He invites me to sit in the chair to discuss the threat of breast cancer. I cross my arms around the blue paper towel jacket as an attempt to prevent exposure, which the actions makes me feel rather silly because I know it is inevitable I will be revealed soon.
I recognize the doctor is some what uncomfortable about discussing the topic of breast cancer or about discussing the issue with someone as young as myself. He tries to remain professional by offering eye contact, but his glances often fall to my knees. Above all he tries to assure me it is highly unlikely I have a cancerous lump at the age of 27. The doctor then signals me to the exam bed as he washes his hands. With a deep breath he asks me to raise my right arm as a basis for comparison since my marble is in the left breast.
At first the doctor seems reluctant carefully touching me as if he could violate me. A few seconds later he eases his conscience where I no longer have breasts on my chest, but instead I am play-dough. The doctor switches sides asking me to lift my left arm. He names off terms, which I assume are medical locations for the breast. Then he discovers my lump, I mean my marble. He becomes intrigued then I catch a hint of relief in his voice. He is most certain it is benign for how easily it moves around.
The doctor asks the nurse to turn off the lights while he grabs the ultrasound phone and lubricant. He then asks me have I ever been examined by an ultrasound before. I reply, "Yes, for my thumb." (When I severely cut my thumb on a table-saw the machine was used as an attempt to break up the scar tissue- it did not work.) First, the doctor concentrates on the area where my marble is located showing a highlight spot with white shadowing on the monitor. This is good. A star-shape with dark shadowing would indicate a tumor. The doctor repeats himself several times about my healthy tissue for a healthy breast. Then he explains because I am thin, or because I have small breasts, I can see my heart beat causing the tissue to tremor. Several shots are photographed of my ultrasound breast image. I am fascinated suddenly feeling myself become envious for a pregnant woman.
The doctor finishes his exam switching on the lights. He is 99.9% sure my marble is benign, but for assurance he can remove a specimen from the lump to send to pathology for testing to be absolutely certain. I agree. He places some kind of ointment on the breast then numbs the area by inserting a needle. A moment later with one hand he uses his knuckle to blockade the marble from disappearing while using his other hand to inject a surrenge into the marble. He pumps the needle up and down. "Do you hear the grinding sound," he asks. I listen closer. Then I hear it, like a pencil moving across sandpaper. He asks the nurse for a larger gauge surrenge . I cringe. I have been numbed, but that grinding sound makes me hurt. Plus, every time the doctor pushes down its like pressing into an empty cavity that reaches further placing pressure on my lung. Finally, he is done squeezing my juices into a small jar. He cleans my puncture of the blood then places on a round band aide.
I am told the results will take a few days to be received then reviewed, but I should call the beginning of the following week for my outcome. The doctor shakes my hand assuring me I have nothing to worry about. He makes his exit leaving me bruised and partially naked. I feel somewhat abandoned. I redress, take a few more pictures, pay my bill, then leave for work. Nothing seemed very important as I carried that attitude on my face for the remainder of the day.
For the rest of the week I give little thought to my marble. I consume myself with my job trying to complete each work day. My breast is sore from the puncture having a greenish/purple bruise to show for it. With all my many bruises from time's past this is the first for my breast. The marble also feels swollen and tender.
Monday comes. I decide not to call just in case the result are not in yet. Tuesday comes. I call. The secretary takes my name and number informing me a nurse will call me with the results. The call is not returned. Wednesday comes. I call again. The secretary apologizes. She promises to make sure my file is reviewed and will have the nurse call me as soon as possible. I wait. Should I be concerned or is this typical routine for doctor offices to prolong any and every news whether good or bad? Or is someone holding out on me for fear of the diagnosis that must be revealed?
I must have been distracted from the phone when I noticed I missed a call. I check my voice mail. It is from my doctor. "Hi, Catherine. The needle aspiration did not show any cancer cells. Sometimes you are not adequately getting a good sample and so I always recommend you still follow up to be sure you are not with an enlarged tumorous cells. Just to be sure have a follow up scheduled in a few months." Then its over. Its a strange message to leave me. I am in the clear, but I should still have the fear in the back of my mind. Why could he not say, "You are golden. Enjoy your life and have lots of babies," or something to that regard to assure me my life is normal.
If the doctor told me I actually did have a malignant lump I think I would have remained calm. There has been such a slow progression that there would be acceptance instead of shock. I do not want to demean anyone's illness or disabilities or pain, but as a human we find ways to cope. The initial state of shock declares ideas of the impossible. However, through life as a living creature our adaptability is endless. The unexpected death of a loved one, the surprise of any amputating accident, the unbelievable diagnosis of a life-threatening disease, the life changing acknowledgment of an event or circumstance. It all alters the way we think or feel determining what the next step must be. I know now after the tests and the exams and the prayers and the advice and the love that I can overcome the worst of news. I always have. There is one thing I know of God- He will not place me through a trial I cannot over come without Him. Breast cancer- with whatever result forms- is included.
George Muller, founder an orphanage in England and dedicated man or prayer, said as a reaction to his wife's death, "the times of my darling wife are in Your hands. You will do the very best thing for her and for me, whether in life or death. If it may be raise yet up again my precious wife, You are able to do it, though she is so ill; but however You deal with me, only help me to continue to be perfectly satisfied with Your holy will."
Through this obstacle I have come to realize it is not death I fear, but living my life to the fullest capacity. Am I willing to perform what seems impossible? Do I believe my life is some leaf flapping in the wind? Or am I courageous to trust there is direction and purpose for my decisions with guidance to follow righteously? I am not perfect. I do not have all the answers, but I know I am safer in the hands of the One who formed me for there is nothing to fear. "We rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our suffering, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us because God has poured out his love into our hearts." (Romans 5:2-5)
When I allow things like work or loneliness or confusion or physical challenges to burden me I must remember my life is also blessed by great and small.
"Our desire, therefore, is not that we might be without trials of faith, but that the Lord graciously would be pleased to support us in the trial, that we might not dishonour Him by distrust." -George Muller
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