Chapter 5
A few months later, Noodles joins me at an appointment with our obstetrician. I’m smack dab in the middle of the second trimester at nineteen weeks and already showing. I pull up the hem of my loose floral top an odd sense of unease prickles at my senses.
Dr. Johnson squeezes a blob of gel onto my stomach and gently moves a wand over my skin.
My baby is a beautiful gray and white blob on the screen; head, arms, and legs all forming. He or she gives a little kick. We listen to the steady thump-thump-thump of the heartbeat, a rhythmic symphony of life that fills me with joy.
A flutter of joy rises in my chest at the steady beat.
That’s our baby. A new life.
“Everything sounds good. The baby’s heart is strong and healthy.” Dr. Johnson smiles, her kind eyes crinkling behind her wire-rimmed glasses.
I breathe a sigh of relief. At four and a half months along, the baby is the size of an avocado, according to my pregnancy app. Still tiny, but with fingers and toes and a little nose. A whole new life growing inside me.
Tears prick my eyes as I grip Noodles’s hand. He squeezes back, equally mesmerized by the sight of our child.
Dr. Johnson clicks off the machine and cleans the gel off my belly. “Everything looks great. We’ll finish with a breast exam and call it a day. Are your breasts tender?”
“Yes.” I’m not well-endowed when it comes to boobs and barely fill an A-cup bra.
When I was pregnant with Kai, I wasn’t prepared for the near doubling in size that happened. Not that my breasts got huge, but for the first time in my life, I fit into a B-cup. The only bad thing about the whole thing is the tenderness and increased sensitivity.
Dr. Johnson begins the exam with my right breast. Her brows furrow, however, during the exam of my left breast. She goes back to a prior spot, running her fingers over that one area again and again.
Something’s wrong. I know it.
“Have you noticed a lump here before?”
“A lump?”
“Do you feel that?” She takes my hand and places my fingers over the area she’s concerned about.
I’m not great with self-breast exams. Since my breasts aren’t much to write home about, I admit I’ve never checked for lumps before.
“I don’t feel anything.” I look at her with concern.
“It could be nothing, but we’ll need to run some tests.”
“Tests?” Noodles asks. “What kind of tests?”
“Mammogram. Ultrasound. A needle biopsy, depending on what the results of the mammogram and ultrasound show.”
“Biopsy?” My attention shifts to Noodles in alarm.
He squeezes my hand, then leans down to press his lips lightly against my forehead.
“In most cases, it’s nothing more than the fibrous framework of the breast tissue enlarging during pregnancy due to your hormones.” My doctor tries to keep me from freaking out, but I’m freaked out. “With your pregnancy and the changes in your breasts, we might simply be better able to feel the normal dense fibrous tissue, but I’d like to be certain.” Dr. Johnson keeps her words steady and soothing.
Unfortunately, it does nothing to calm the racing of my pulse.
“So—it’s normal, right?”
Please be normal.
“Perhaps, but I’d like to be certain,” Dr. Johnson concludes, her calm, practiced voice a stark contrast to the chaotic tumble of my thoughts.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. She hasn’t said the C-word, but I know what she’s thinking.
Cancer.
Tears spill down my cheeks. The flutter of joy from seeing my unborn child is gone. All I feel is a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach and fear. Lots of fear.
My baby is healthy. I try to focus on the positive, but it’s hard. A riot of emotions swirls through me. Fear for my baby. Fear for myself. Anger at my body for betraying me like this. Grief at losing the joy in this pregnancy.
Dr. Johnson outlines the next steps: a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy if required. Her words are a complete blur. Fortunately, I have Noodles. He asks all the questions I can’t. I wish I had his strength. We set dates for the mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy—if required.
A week? How can I wait, knowing there might be a time bomb ticking away inside me? I want to do something now. If there’s cancer inside of me, I want it gone. Cut it out and get it as far away from my unborn baby as possible.