Same Ol' Same Ol', With a Twist

After five years on the cancer trail, mammograms are nothing if not routine.  But just when you think you've seen and done it all, there's a new variation on the old theme.

Today's technician couldn't have topped out anywhere near 5' tall.  At 5'10", I towered over her.  So, for the first time ever, I sat for today's procedure.  That enabled her to manipulate both the equipment and my assorted chestal regions without the need of a milk crate to stand on.

Beyond that small novelty, there was nothing surprising about the experience.  Clothes off, gown on, gown off, squish, squish, gown on, gown off, clothes on, done.  In a week, I'll know the story.

Booby Bash 2.0

Not quite as hot a night as 1.0, and not quite so many partiers, but a good time was had by all.  Bevvies were hoisted and cupcakes consumed.  Hooters outdid themselves and it felt great to celebrate.  A perfect ending to a long trip.

1826

One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six pills.  One a day for five years -- four regular and one leap.  Yesterday, I took my last Tamoxifen tablet.

It hasn't sunk in yet.  That might happen when I don't find that round white pill with today's meds and vitamins.  We'll see.  It certainly felt good to return the extras to the pharmacy.

That's the last of my treatments over and done with.  The journey has felt neither short nor long.  I've just put one foot in front of the other.  And here I am at the end of the road.  Well, almost.  Now there's a party to plan.

Sionara to The Pusher

I think the last time I saw The Pusher was nearly five years ago.  I've been making do with his henchmen ever since.  But today's appointment was important, so he made the time to see me himself, even though I arrived 45 minutes late.

Nothing's changed about the routine.  Undress from the waist up, don the ridiculously small gown (opening in the front, please), wait, remove the aforementioned scrap of cloth, submit to a manual bilateral palpation (warm hands good, cold hands bad), and... we're done.  The small talk's better ("tell me about the tattoo"), but that's incidental.

In May, I will have completed my five-year course of Tamoxifen;  I have enough pills to get me there.  So, it turns out this was our last date.  In fact, he told me he never wants to see me again.  Breaking up has never been so easy to do!

Last Date With The Dutchman?

Ridiculously, I still look forward to my time with The Dutchman, no matter how brief and clinical.  And brief this meeting was.  Maybe ten minutes in the waiting room, another five in the exam room, five in his presence, and Robert is your father's brother.

Clear mammogram, the usual pat down, a promise of another booby sandwich and follow-up in twelve months, and he disappeared from whence he came.  Weirdly, I choked up a little, after he left the room.  Relief, maybe?  It's hard to believe I'll have been five years in his care next month.

So, not our 'last date', but a change in our relationship.  It works for me.

Squish-o-matic

3D mammograms are standard now -- at least for me.  Fortunately, no nerdy glasses are involved.

Today's experience was totally uneventful.  No celebrities in the waiting room.  No unusual discomfort during the procedure.  No concern about the test results.  Everything on time, everyone pleasant and helpful.  A yawn with snore sauce.

Never imagined I'd get this blasé about the whole thing.  A good sign, I think.

Much Ado About Nothing

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.