Tom Petty is a Prophet

The waiting really is the hardest part.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLCJEYLIBQY

The first time I waited, I didn’t even know I was doing it. After my annual physical in the summer, I was sent for a regular (AKA screening) mammogram on August 27. Been there, done that. I remember thinking how lucky I am to have large breasts, as the process is only uncomfortable for me, not painful, as it can be for smaller-breasted women. In was in and out, and never gave it another thought.

When I got the call from my doc to request a magnification mammogram and ultrasound, I wasn’t freaked. I just went back and started over. This time, just the right side: two views. September 28.

I knew it was microcalcifications they were looking at, and I saw the film on the light board while the technician was out of the room. A yellow grease pencil had drawn an untidy box around the cells in question. A constellation of tiny white specs. Not a lump. And not uncommon. Only 15% of occurrences turn out to be malignant. Pretty good odds, I thought. Don’t worry, ‘til there’s cause.

Then off to the ultrasound. I’ve had those, too: cold gel and the magic wand. Not the magic wand at the airport (the one that picks up the underwires and the rivets in your jeans), but a wand nonetheless. You always know when the technicians have found what they want to look at, as they go over and over and over it again. And when your technician elects to call a friend, it’s hard to disguise that there’s something going on. I think it’s fair to say that when health professionals tell you not to be concerned, it’s time to get your worry on. But, who’s got time for that? Two days after my second tit sandwich in a month, I flew off to Turkey with instructions for the doc to call me as soon as the results came back.

Ya know, it doesn’t matter how busy you are – and I was some busy in Istanbul – when you’re waiting for a phone call that’s taking its own sweet time, the clock seems to slow down, and the calendar pages don’t turn as quickly as they usually do. You’d think with the men in my recent life, I’d be better at accepting that: apparently not. But the call did come, and with it the news that I was to be scheduled for a biopsy. Shit.

After a week away, and another week after I got home, I was back at the lab naked from the waist up. This time with a South African – Christiaan Barnard of the boobs – making small talk with a swab in one hand and a needle in the other. It was never among my fantasies to hear a man with his hand on my breast say, “And now you’ll feel a little prick”, but I digress. After four or five cores (it’s hard to keep track when you’re trying not to think about the needle in your breast), the little prick left and I wobbled off to tape an ice pack inside my bra and head back to work like nothing had happened.

Two weeks ‘til the results. Shit, again.

This afternoon -- two weeks and two days later -- my doc reviewed the pathologist’s report with me. It turns out the biopsy didn’t pick up any of the microcalcifications, so the next step is either another biopsy – stereotactic, this time, so they’ll be sure to get what they came for – or an excision, which amounts to a lumpectomy. Either way, I’ll know once and for all if the atypical cells are benign or malignant. But in the meantime – until the consultation with the next in my parade of doctors (set for November 26)– more waiting.

Sing it, Tom.