I sashayed into PMH solo, this morning. The BFF was otherwise engaged, attending a routine colonoscopy (hers), across town. For once, I wanted to face The Dutchman alone, if the news was to be bad. I needn't have worried.
The man of the hour breezed in, dark-suited and sporting a grizzled goatee. (I think it ages him, but, oddly, he didn't ask about my grooming preferences where surgeons are concerned.) All business, he cut right to the chase. October mammogram: clear. November MRI: something to further investigate. December ultrasound: clear. And, after a brief paper chase, December mammogram: clear. Amazing. Fantabulous! And weirdly anticlimactic.
I had so prepared myself for a repeat of the news from December four years ago (has it really been four years?), and was so sure I knew how today's appointment would play out, that I felt a little off balance to have nothing to worry about, all of a sudden. But, I did have the presence of mind to ask my backup question.
Because decisions about surgery are mine now, I figured it was time to talk about rebalancing. I'm tired of lingerie that doesn't fit, straps that won't stay where they're put, and clothes that don't hang properly. So I put it to The Dutchman. "No problem," says he. "I'll refer you to Plastics." I felt for a moment like Benjamin Braddock, but it passed.
The usual quick feel, confirmation that I'll be back for another mammogram in twelve months (no MRI, next time!), and I was on my way. Best Christmas present ever. Happy is an understatement.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
Pokey, No: Gumby, Yes
I saved a milligram of Ativan from my MRI Rx for today's festivities. Turns out I didn't need it, but how was I to know? The BFF stepped up for escort duty, yet again. The woman spends nearly as much time in waiting rooms as I do.
We arrived uncharacteristically early, which was just as well; the bottleneck at the registration desk ate up much of that cushion. Then it was off to the change room for me -- those blue patterned gowns haven't improved with age -- and one of the assortment of waiting rooms for the BFF. When I rejoined her, we were faced with the sad choice of ancient magazines or CP24 (second worst TV channel ever*), so naturally we ignored both and chatted happily away until my name was mangled -- er, called.
I had popped the Ativan in the waiting room. It takes effect within about 15 minutes, so I was beginning to relax a little as the technician positioned me on the gurney for the ultrasound. The focus was on the outside of my left breast -- pretty much exactly corresponding to the location of the scar on my right side. The scan was through, but, in the end, she captured only three images. Looking over my head at the screen, I couldn't make out anything but lines and squiggles on the screen; apparently, I can't tell any better what they're looking for than the last time I did this. The technician scurried away to confer with the radiologist on duty, while I played the biopsy process over in my head.
Proving, yet again, that I don't know everything, the technician reappeared and invited me down the hall for a mammogram: no biopsy required. If it wasn't for the Ativan, I might have cartwheeled down the hallway. The image required was only of my left breast, and really only the left side of that. Just as well, 'cause it was the squishiest mammogram I've ever had, and that's saying something. Frankly, I thought my left side would be as flat as Gumby before we were done!
More waiting, while the radiologist read the tea leaves, and suddenly I was free to go. No needle. All smiles. Now just Thursday with The Dutchman 'til I know what's going on.
We arrived uncharacteristically early, which was just as well; the bottleneck at the registration desk ate up much of that cushion. Then it was off to the change room for me -- those blue patterned gowns haven't improved with age -- and one of the assortment of waiting rooms for the BFF. When I rejoined her, we were faced with the sad choice of ancient magazines or CP24 (second worst TV channel ever*), so naturally we ignored both and chatted happily away until my name was mangled -- er, called.
I had popped the Ativan in the waiting room. It takes effect within about 15 minutes, so I was beginning to relax a little as the technician positioned me on the gurney for the ultrasound. The focus was on the outside of my left breast -- pretty much exactly corresponding to the location of the scar on my right side. The scan was through, but, in the end, she captured only three images. Looking over my head at the screen, I couldn't make out anything but lines and squiggles on the screen; apparently, I can't tell any better what they're looking for than the last time I did this. The technician scurried away to confer with the radiologist on duty, while I played the biopsy process over in my head.
Proving, yet again, that I don't know everything, the technician reappeared and invited me down the hall for a mammogram: no biopsy required. If it wasn't for the Ativan, I might have cartwheeled down the hallway. The image required was only of my left breast, and really only the left side of that. Just as well, 'cause it was the squishiest mammogram I've ever had, and that's saying something. Frankly, I thought my left side would be as flat as Gumby before we were done!
More waiting, while the radiologist read the tea leaves, and suddenly I was free to go. No needle. All smiles. Now just Thursday with The Dutchman 'til I know what's going on.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
So, That Happened
The PMH booking office called, late yesterday. They left one of those drive-by voice messages where they tell you who it is, their phone number, that they want to do an ultrasound... and that they'll be leaving the office right away, so you'll have to call back tomorrow. Which is code for, 'have a restful sleep'.
This morning, I called back. The radiologist reviewing my MRI results has scheduled me for an ultrasound "with possible biopsy" for December 16. There's nothing 'possible' about the biopsy; it'll be a sure thing. Oh, and it's the left breast we're looking at, this time. The whole breast. The 'good' breast.
This ain't my first rodeo. I think there's a fresh DCIS site, and I'll be scheduled for surgery in January. Sure, it's possible I'm wrong, but unlikely. If I am right, it'll be a double mastectomy, this time. But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.
So, another postponement of my date with The Dutchman (how will he stand it?): December 19 will tell the tale. I'll try to think of other things in the meantime.
This morning, I called back. The radiologist reviewing my MRI results has scheduled me for an ultrasound "with possible biopsy" for December 16. There's nothing 'possible' about the biopsy; it'll be a sure thing. Oh, and it's the left breast we're looking at, this time. The whole breast. The 'good' breast.
This ain't my first rodeo. I think there's a fresh DCIS site, and I'll be scheduled for surgery in January. Sure, it's possible I'm wrong, but unlikely. If I am right, it'll be a double mastectomy, this time. But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.
So, another postponement of my date with The Dutchman (how will he stand it?): December 19 will tell the tale. I'll try to think of other things in the meantime.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
3T or Not 3T
Not only is the coil back from TGH, it's in a brand spanky new MRI machine. It's got lights the length of the tube inside and, like my first experience at Mount Sinai, requires me to lie with my arms extended above my head, arc of a diver-style.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. My escort du jour was the Jockette. We got the chance to catch up in the waiting room. I'm sure the other patient found us annoying as hell. It's impossible to spend time with the Jockette without laughing uproariously, at some point. There was the usual joviality, but we lost it completely while I was completing the paperwork. There's an interminable list of conditions with yes/no check boxes beside each, and a comments column to the right. The patient must indicate whether the condition is one they have/have had, in each case.
Mostly, I get to check 'no' as I go down the list. No stents, no allergies to medication, no dentures, and so on. When I reached the "cancer" line -- still chatting merrily away with the Jockette -- I checked the box indicating yes, and in the comments column wrote, "breakfast cancer"! Needless to say, it's a pen in my hand, not a pencil, so I was forced to cross out 'breakfast' and replace it with 'breast'. Hilarious and mortifying, all at the same time. Fits of giggling ensued.
Once admitted to the inner sanctum, in went the IV, down went the Ativan (experience doesn't diminish my mild claustrophobia), on went the headphones and, laid out on the deck like Superman in flight, I slid into the machine. Half an hour later, all those steps were reversed, and I rejoined Jockette in the real world.
Now I've just the date with the Dutchman on Thursday, and I'm good for another year.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. My escort du jour was the Jockette. We got the chance to catch up in the waiting room. I'm sure the other patient found us annoying as hell. It's impossible to spend time with the Jockette without laughing uproariously, at some point. There was the usual joviality, but we lost it completely while I was completing the paperwork. There's an interminable list of conditions with yes/no check boxes beside each, and a comments column to the right. The patient must indicate whether the condition is one they have/have had, in each case.
Mostly, I get to check 'no' as I go down the list. No stents, no allergies to medication, no dentures, and so on. When I reached the "cancer" line -- still chatting merrily away with the Jockette -- I checked the box indicating yes, and in the comments column wrote, "breakfast cancer"! Needless to say, it's a pen in my hand, not a pencil, so I was forced to cross out 'breakfast' and replace it with 'breast'. Hilarious and mortifying, all at the same time. Fits of giggling ensued.
Once admitted to the inner sanctum, in went the IV, down went the Ativan (experience doesn't diminish my mild claustrophobia), on went the headphones and, laid out on the deck like Superman in flight, I slid into the machine. Half an hour later, all those steps were reversed, and I rejoined Jockette in the real world.
Now I've just the date with the Dutchman on Thursday, and I'm good for another year.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
The New, Improved Squish-o-matic
No MRI? No problem. There's still the annual mammogram to endure.
And, on this visit, there's fresh equipment. My photos will be in 3D, this year. Now the machine's head carves an arc through the air above me, and the image it records is a big improvement over the x-ray-like view of the old technology. Unfortunately, the booby sandwich piece of the process hasn't changed a lick. But, there are only four images (two a side), and it doesn't take long 'til I'm on my way back to the change room. In 48 hours, The Dutchman will have the results, visible on the screen in his office. Amazing.
And, on this visit, there's fresh equipment. My photos will be in 3D, this year. Now the machine's head carves an arc through the air above me, and the image it records is a big improvement over the x-ray-like view of the old technology. Unfortunately, the booby sandwich piece of the process hasn't changed a lick. But, there are only four images (two a side), and it doesn't take long 'til I'm on my way back to the change room. In 48 hours, The Dutchman will have the results, visible on the screen in his office. Amazing.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
One Size Does NOT Fit All
It's fall again: booby season. I was scheduled for an MRI tonight, a mammogram tomorrow and a date with the Dutchman (sigh) next week. Truly, the titty trifecta. But, it was not to be.
The BFF and I arrived on time, I blazed through the paperwork, kitted myself out in this season's most glamourous hospital gowns (one backwards, one forwards), and followed my technician escort into the inner sanctum. Usually, that means it's time for installation of an IV, and a memory test about the forms I've just completed, before being loaded into the tube.
Tonight, it was different. Once inside, my technician retreated for a tete-a-tete with his colleague, and returned with the news that the coil for the larger of their two MRI machines was on loan to Toronto General, across the street. The smaller machine's bore apparently isn't large enough to accommodate the full extent of my voluptuousness, so I was rescheduled and sent packing. No claustrophobia, no Ativan, no nothing. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing.
Round two in a couple of weeks. Watch this space.
The BFF and I arrived on time, I blazed through the paperwork, kitted myself out in this season's most glamourous hospital gowns (one backwards, one forwards), and followed my technician escort into the inner sanctum. Usually, that means it's time for installation of an IV, and a memory test about the forms I've just completed, before being loaded into the tube.
Tonight, it was different. Once inside, my technician retreated for a tete-a-tete with his colleague, and returned with the news that the coil for the larger of their two MRI machines was on loan to Toronto General, across the street. The smaller machine's bore apparently isn't large enough to accommodate the full extent of my voluptuousness, so I was rescheduled and sent packing. No claustrophobia, no Ativan, no nothing. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing.
Round two in a couple of weeks. Watch this space.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Epiphany
I met another ersatz version of The Pill, today. I guess that's some measure of how far up the food chain he is: he has minions. It's hard to believe it's been almost three years since my first date with The Pill. Time flies when you're on hormone therapy, or something.
While I was waiting for my audience, one of the research fellows came in and asked if I'd participate in a couple of surveys. One was about how frequently I take my meds, and the other about post-treatment fatigue. Naturally, being a good patient, I said yes. I take my meds 100% of the time: who knew there was another option? As it turns out, most people -- yes, I said MOST -- don't take their medications as prescribed by their physicians. Even when it's cancer. Amazing.
I polished that one off before the oncologist du jour came in. After my strip search -- warm hands, gentle touch, all we needed was a little Anita Baker and a glass of wine -- I sat down to the second survey. Halfway through, it was like someone punched me in the gut. Do you have difficulty getting projects started? Do you have difficulty finishing household chores? Do you feel you have less energy than you used to? Do you want to be alone more than usual? Do you wake up tired? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes! OMG, I'm fatigued.
I thought I was long past fatigue. I thought I'd gotten that monkey off my back years ago. But, apparently not. I started to cry about the time I read the third question. So THAT'S what's wrong with me. I thought I was lazy. Or depressed. Or middle-aged. Well, alright, I'm all of those things... but, I'm fatigued, too. What a relief.
While I was waiting for my audience, one of the research fellows came in and asked if I'd participate in a couple of surveys. One was about how frequently I take my meds, and the other about post-treatment fatigue. Naturally, being a good patient, I said yes. I take my meds 100% of the time: who knew there was another option? As it turns out, most people -- yes, I said MOST -- don't take their medications as prescribed by their physicians. Even when it's cancer. Amazing.
I polished that one off before the oncologist du jour came in. After my strip search -- warm hands, gentle touch, all we needed was a little Anita Baker and a glass of wine -- I sat down to the second survey. Halfway through, it was like someone punched me in the gut. Do you have difficulty getting projects started? Do you have difficulty finishing household chores? Do you feel you have less energy than you used to? Do you want to be alone more than usual? Do you wake up tired? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes! OMG, I'm fatigued.
I thought I was long past fatigue. I thought I'd gotten that monkey off my back years ago. But, apparently not. I started to cry about the time I read the third question. So THAT'S what's wrong with me. I thought I was lazy. Or depressed. Or middle-aged. Well, alright, I'm all of those things... but, I'm fatigued, too. What a relief.
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