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.
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