Clampdown, Part II

This time around, for my fourth mammogram in about five years, things started out well. I had remembered my slip! The technician seemed pleased. And for some reason, everything was breezy--in retrospect, maybe too breezy. I changed quickly, she positioned me about four different ways, I didn't move, the films, she exclaimed, "were good." The only difficulty for me was the horrible pinch I felt, given that I was pre-menstrual and my breasts were tender to touch, let alone to squeeze and flatten into pancakes--but even that passed quickly. In and out in ten minutes--I was amazed, and had one of those silly, delusional thoughts, that I had somehow conquered the clampdown, figured it out, put in my dues, breezed by all the troubles that had snagged my previous mammo experiences, and could now eat my cake. Cake! When I left that day, I felt light, even a little smug, laughing at my past foibles with the clampdown. As if!

Yeah, well, I should know better, shouldn't I?

A few days later I got a call from a nurse at the local women's health center that had ordered the mammogram. I could tell instantly from her voice that something was wrong. "Hi Liz, it's M. from the Health Center. We've just been reviewing your test results. Did Amanda tell you anything?" That's never good. And who the heck was Amanda? And what would she be telling me? "They found a nodule on your mammogram, left breast. You need to have retakes and an ultrasound..." The rest, gibberish. Somehow, I scribbled some notes on a piece of scrap paper. Shit. Shit. Shit. Call CRI for retakes and ultrasound.

The fear came on immediately, sinking into my belly like a lead weight and sending sharp bursts of panic all over. I hastily made a call to schedule mammogram retakes and an an ultrasound at the place where I've always had my mammograms; I'd have to wait until the end of the week, and would have to go to the hospital for the ultrasound. I placed a call to the hospital. They could see me directly after my mammograms, and I should bring my films with me so that the radiologist could read everything right away. My anxiety whirled into a paranoia-dust storm. I felt blinded. There seemed to be an urgency in everyone's voice that suggested that I was the last one to find out about the nodule, a mini conspiracy theory in the works.

Later, I spoke with L., a wonderful mid-wife who lives just up the hill from us and whom I see for my annual exams. She offered up a much-needed dose of perspective. Why worry about this? It could be fine. And she was right. I have spent far too much time in my life fretting about the what ifs and spinning out tales of chaos and catastrophe. I would just have to wait. Try to go about life as usual. And wait.