Daily Miracle: Waiting, waiting, waiting. . .and getting good news!
"You may be a little lopsided for a few days," the nurse told me after she went over all the things that could happen to me during the procedure, including sudden death and chest perforation.
"No problem," I said, "I've been lopsided most of my life. One of my taps didn't work when I was breastfeeding. Someone slipped me a dud. This right boob has been nothing but trouble. This is my second biopsy. So do your worst."
She looked at me. "You're funny," she said, with a slightly bewildered smile, and then she had me clamber up on a table and drop my right breast through a hole before she cranked me up five feet in the air. How bad could this be? I thought, as she pushed my sorry little boob between two steel plates. They'd said I could have a valium but I'd scoffed. Who needs a valium? I'd be fine.
What followed was one of the more uncomfortable, bizarre experiences of my life. For an hour, I lay with my face to one side while I was skewered like a bug. The nurse kept calling, "Time for another picture! Don't breathe!" and the radiologist would murmur things like, "Now I'm putting in another needle. Don't move." It always makes me want to cackle when radiologists and nurses clamp your boob into a deadlock and say, "Don't move." As if. Lady, if there were a rabid, hungry bear after me, I couldn't move. I really couldn't move this time. The nurse had had to take away the little support that was there just to pull and shove enough of me through the hole to clamp in place. Hah. Move, me? Not likely.
My sister sat there and watched tissue samples exit a hollow needle and travel through a clear tube across the room into a jar. I listened to Diana Krall purring "Popsicle Toes" from a stereo by my head, travelling again and again to my happy place as the machine popped and sighed.
Finally, after the soft-spoken radiologist exited and I peeled myself off the table, the nurse packed me with ice. "That's not the position I want to be in when there's an emergency," I told her. "In a clamp with a needle through me. Not the place to be if there's a fire. Now I'm going for a latte."
She stared at me with that slightly bewildered look again. "Hmm. Well, take it easy, okay? No shopping. Rest for two days. No exercise." I high-fived my sister. "No stress."
"You mean I should get rid of my kids."
She smiled. "That's right. No kids." On the way out she said, "Here, take a carnation." Ah, the carnations. I've been to that office a bunch of times to get squished and photographed twelve ways to Sunday and I've never been offered a carnation before. Nor do I ever want to get offered a carnation again.
My wonderful sister took me out to lunch, where, still numbed and full of my own courage, I pulverized a plate of noodles. It was only at Barnes and Noble, where I wandered around with an ice-pack sticking out of my shirt, that my body started hollering at me: "What are you DOING? You've been poked and prodded and it's not right! Go home and go to bed!" I got out of there before upchucking in the bushes just outside the door.
Then I went to bed and I barely got up for the next day. I'm still healing, a bit bruised from the hollow needle biopsy but well. Waiting for news--that's no fun. From the time the radiologist found "something a bit suspicious" a few weeks ago to when I got a call with the results, I had to wait. Wait to find out if I was okay or not. So when the nurse called yesterday and said, "I just wanted to call and tell you all the samples were benign," I was ready to celebrate.
Yay!
Over a million women in America get this procedure--stereotatic breast biopsy--done every year. You know what? We women have to stick together. We get poked and prodded and clamped a lot, don't we? And it's no fun. But we do it because we love our lives, and our kids, and we're brave and know we have to do whatever we must do. Here's to us.
And when, on a beautiful, bright day, we find out we're completely healthy, we celebrate that, too. Have a drink on me, everyone, and raise your glasses and toast: "To when the news is good!"
"No problem," I said, "I've been lopsided most of my life. One of my taps didn't work when I was breastfeeding. Someone slipped me a dud. This right boob has been nothing but trouble. This is my second biopsy. So do your worst."
She looked at me. "You're funny," she said, with a slightly bewildered smile, and then she had me clamber up on a table and drop my right breast through a hole before she cranked me up five feet in the air. How bad could this be? I thought, as she pushed my sorry little boob between two steel plates. They'd said I could have a valium but I'd scoffed. Who needs a valium? I'd be fine.
What followed was one of the more uncomfortable, bizarre experiences of my life. For an hour, I lay with my face to one side while I was skewered like a bug. The nurse kept calling, "Time for another picture! Don't breathe!" and the radiologist would murmur things like, "Now I'm putting in another needle. Don't move." It always makes me want to cackle when radiologists and nurses clamp your boob into a deadlock and say, "Don't move." As if. Lady, if there were a rabid, hungry bear after me, I couldn't move. I really couldn't move this time. The nurse had had to take away the little support that was there just to pull and shove enough of me through the hole to clamp in place. Hah. Move, me? Not likely.
My sister sat there and watched tissue samples exit a hollow needle and travel through a clear tube across the room into a jar. I listened to Diana Krall purring "Popsicle Toes" from a stereo by my head, travelling again and again to my happy place as the machine popped and sighed.
Finally, after the soft-spoken radiologist exited and I peeled myself off the table, the nurse packed me with ice. "That's not the position I want to be in when there's an emergency," I told her. "In a clamp with a needle through me. Not the place to be if there's a fire. Now I'm going for a latte."
She stared at me with that slightly bewildered look again. "Hmm. Well, take it easy, okay? No shopping. Rest for two days. No exercise." I high-fived my sister. "No stress."
"You mean I should get rid of my kids."
She smiled. "That's right. No kids." On the way out she said, "Here, take a carnation." Ah, the carnations. I've been to that office a bunch of times to get squished and photographed twelve ways to Sunday and I've never been offered a carnation before. Nor do I ever want to get offered a carnation again.
My wonderful sister took me out to lunch, where, still numbed and full of my own courage, I pulverized a plate of noodles. It was only at Barnes and Noble, where I wandered around with an ice-pack sticking out of my shirt, that my body started hollering at me: "What are you DOING? You've been poked and prodded and it's not right! Go home and go to bed!" I got out of there before upchucking in the bushes just outside the door.
Then I went to bed and I barely got up for the next day. I'm still healing, a bit bruised from the hollow needle biopsy but well. Waiting for news--that's no fun. From the time the radiologist found "something a bit suspicious" a few weeks ago to when I got a call with the results, I had to wait. Wait to find out if I was okay or not. So when the nurse called yesterday and said, "I just wanted to call and tell you all the samples were benign," I was ready to celebrate.
Yay!
Over a million women in America get this procedure--stereotatic breast biopsy--done every year. You know what? We women have to stick together. We get poked and prodded and clamped a lot, don't we? And it's no fun. But we do it because we love our lives, and our kids, and we're brave and know we have to do whatever we must do. Here's to us.
And when, on a beautiful, bright day, we find out we're completely healthy, we celebrate that, too. Have a drink on me, everyone, and raise your glasses and toast: "To when the news is good!"
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