Yes, gentle readers, I had to go get the Rack checked out. During my 30,000 mile tune up my doctor felt something "not quite right" and so, to the radiologists I went. Never fear! The Rack is healthy and standing strong. I present to you:
LC Goes to The Breast Clinic:
I went to Northwestern Memorial to get everything done. Now, lemme backtrack to the scheduling portion of the story.
So, I call the number my doctor gave me, and spoke with a woman who, in turn, gave me another number to call to get my appointment sooner than the first woman was able to accomplish. I was calling the Supervisor: She with Powers of System Override. She calls me back later in the day and we begin to set up what needs to be done.
ME: Yes, I was told to call you to get a sooner appointment.
HER: Do you have doctor's orders?
In fact, yes, I did actually have DOCTOR'S ORDERS. An 11x17 heavy stock piece of paper folded in half with various departments and procedures with her markings near and around the Breast portion of things. So, I had to have an ultra sound, Doctors Orders! Anyway...
ME: yes, she wants me to have an ultrasound.
HER: Well, the doctor here will want you to have a mammogram.
My doctor specifically told me that she'd rather an ultrasound as the composition of the mass was such that she was afraid the mammogram wouldn't pick it up. And that I didn't need one of those til I was 35 anyway.
ME: (Stating the above)
HER: (essentially what sounded like:) Your doctor, the physician you see on a regular basis, doesn't know what she's talking about. Now shut up and let me schedule this appointment."
ME: Listen. My doctor is telling me one thing, you're telling me another, I don't want to have a test I don't need. I'm kind of freaking out here.
HER: Well, the radiologist (Who LC's never met)is the one who knows what she's talking about, and I've been doing this for 13 years.
Ok, at that point, I was careening towards being monumentally pissed off. First off, I'm 30 years old and I have "a mass" in my breast. In my brain, I'm already undergoing chemo and losing all of my hair, sitting in a wheel chair on the side of the road smiling weakly as the Avon Breast Cancer Walkers go by, and this woman starts getting all up in my kitchen about how long she's been doing this. Awesome, bitch, if that's the case, then how about some bedside-manner??
The session finally scheduled, I hung up the phone absolutely amazed at the insensitivity. Where the FUCK was the mellow voiceover telling me that I am still a woman and my pink goddamned ribbon??
In the shower after my workout was when it really hit me. I could be sick. I could really be sick. I could die. And then I cried. That night, I broke my promise not to tell anyone about anything until I knew something was wrong, and called my mom.
After Mom did what moms do best, and made it all better, I could go on with the week in relative calm. During the waking hours. At night was a totally different story. Dreams centered around Aliens, Worms, worms eating aliens, and aliens being worms.
So, today was the big day. The Boyfriend drove me down to the Hospital and I went in to go see what was going on.
I arrived at the clinic, on the 13th floor, and the ladies there were extremely nice and there was very little wait. I was taken to the "gowning area." You're given a green, front fastening robe thingy. I glanced down the hall and saw a room populated by more women similarly begowned. I changed, put my things in Locker #13, might as well stay consistent, and went to drink my Dunkin Donuts coffee and read my book. I took quick stock of the room. 99% of the women were my mother's age or older. I felt so out of place...like I was intruding on a club that I wasn't ready for, Oprah was playing on the Tv. We resembled the shampoo area of a high end hair salon. Except TOTALLY NOT LIKE THAT. My name was called and I was ushered to an ultrasound room. My technician was nice enough, but really didn't do much to make me feel comfortable.
"This will feel warm" as she slathered on the jelly stuff...which made me think of that motion lotion. The more she moved the ultrasound gadget around on me, the hotter that stuff got. I pondered where I could get some of that. This is where my brain goes in high pressure situations I suppose. I watched the screen as she made the passes. Fascinated by what I was seeing and this dark spot that I could only assume was THE TUMOR, at one point, I asked "Is that it?" referring to the dark spot she was clicking measuring spots all over.
"The doctor will explain this to you." Snappish. Sorry. God. What the fuck?
She finished up and asked me to sit and wait while she developed the film and then the doctor would come in and go over the results. I turned to my copy of a David Sedaris, and read. (The chapter I read by the way made me laugh just about as hard as Fear and Loathing. Perhaps it was my heightened emotional state, but in any case, the nurses outside must have thought I was a crazy person.)
About 10 minutes later the technician was back with Doctor in tow. They wanted to take another look. Ok...so once again.
"Where are you feeling the mass?"
I indicated the area.
"Ok, well, that's just breast tissue. Can you feel this over here?"
She guided my fingers over a spot and I thought I felt something..
"No, HERE."
"Here?"
"No. HERE!"
Seriously. Why were they being so mean to me? Finally I just gave up and said, yeah I feel it... what is it?"
"Oh, it's just a fibroid adenoma. It's not cancerous. But, I want you to have mammogram on both breasts." And then she left the room.
So, down another hall and into the mammogram room.
Mammogram = smashing your boob between two pieces of plastic and not breathing while they do it and trying not to say "FUCKING OW!!!"
The film came up fine. No problems. But I'm to go back in 6 months.
Final thought: on my way to therapy after all this, I began to reflect on the campaign for Breast Cancer and all that pink ribbon girly crap. I suppose it's soothing and representative of gentleness and support, but I started to think: If I had cancer, I don't think I'd go for the material goods that one sports when one has breast cancer. As a young woman who listens to rock music, almost died at a concert, with a temper like mine, I'd need something a little stronger. I don't want to pet and nurture the cancer. I want to kick its fucking ass. There needs to be a Kick Breast Cancer's Ass campaign, featuring loud music and loud women screaming "FUCK YOU BREAST CANCER" and breaking shit labeled "breast cancer".
Oh and at lunch today I witnessed a seagull pick up a sparrow, break it's neck, and suck it down like a fish. It was Wild Kingdom meets V. It was quite possibly one of the most disturbing things I have ever seen, and I hope I never see that again.
