Chapter 43
I pull my car into the parking lot of the standalone imaging center.
My doctor’s office is in the hospital, but for the testing they sent me to the off-campus imaging center down the street.
The sign reads “outpatient imaging and breast care center.” Just seeing those three words on the sign has my heart racing.
I’ve done this before, only a year ago. It never gets easy though. I was okay until I parked.
Resting my head against the headrest, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. In for four seconds. Out for four seconds. I repeat the process three times.
“Alright Gabby, you’ve got this. You’re going to go in there. You’re going to take some pictures. They’re going to probe around for a bit, and then you’re going to go home.” I try to psych myself up. “Everything is going to be fine.”
Everything is far from fine.
Other than our texts Tuesday night when I told Chase I wanted to talk when he got home, we’ve only texted a few times.
They arrived home in the middle of the night last night with today to rest before the home-stand this week.
I hope he’ll come over later so we can spend the afternoon together and figure out where we stand.
Putting Chase and the team out of my mind, I get out of the car and walk into the building. The doors to the left are for the imaging center. When I open the door, an elderly woman behind the desk looks up with a kind smile.
“Checking in?” she asks. I swallow the lump in my throat and respond with a “yes.”
“What’s your name, dear?” Her tone is sweet and comforting.
“Gabrielle Pierson. I’m here for a mammogram and possible ultrasound.”
She thumbs through the papers on her desk, pulling out mine and telling me to take a seat. “Someone will call you up shortly.”
Looking around the space, I find an empty spot in the corner and take a seat on the couch.
This waiting room isn’t like the typical medical waiting rooms. Instead of standalone hardback chairs that are not comfortable, there are couches and cushioned chairs scattered along the area.
TVs hang on the wall and play home improvement shows.
The lighting is dim to create a comforting feeling rather than the fluorescent lights of a hospital room.
I’m anything but comfortable though. My mind is racing at a thousand miles per hour.
My hands shake slightly when I put my purse on the seat beside me.
I’m fidgety and anxious. After a few minutes, a woman calls my name to finish the check-in process.
Meeting her at the partitioned desk, she greets me with a kind smile and tries to put me at ease.
I wonder if it’s a requirement of the job that all the women at the desk have a motherly sense about them and compassion bleeding from their pores.
It certainly helps take the edge off. She asks for my insurance card and my ID, scanning them into the computer while asking me preliminary patient questions. When she’s done, she hands me a few papers to sign. I sign my name on the dotted line and pass them back to her.
“That’s all for now. You have a seat back over there and they’ll call you in shortly,” she says. I resume my place on the couch against the wall.
The door along the far wall opens and a woman in pink scrubs steps out holding a chart. “Gabrielle,” she calls from the doorway.
“That’s me,” I respond, awkwardly raising my hand as I rise from the chair. I grab my purse and hurry along to the door to greet the nurse.
“Hi, how are you?” she asks once I’m through the door.
“I’m okay, how are you?” Following her down the hallway, she gives me a light smile in response like she knew the answer to her question wasn’t going to be. “I’m great.”
I’m nervous. That’s what I am, but I don’t say that out loud.
She guides me to the changing rooms and begins to explain the process, “You’ve been through this before, so you know the drill.
Everything off from the waist up and put the gown on with the opening in front.
If you have any deodorant on, there are wipes here to wipe it off.
You can lock everything in the locker and bring the key with you.
You can have a seat out here when you’re finished and they’ll call you when they’re ready for you. ”
“Thank you,” I say. She leaves the room and closes the door behind her.
Taking another deep breath, I place my purse in the locker.
Take off my jewelry. Strip off my shirt and bra.
I didn’t wear deodorant today, but I take a wipe out and wipe down my under arms anyways because I sweat on the way here and I’m anxious.
I pick up the pink robe and tie it in the front like she indicated.
I make sure all of my clothes are in the same locker with my purse, locking the door and taking the key with me.
It has one of those rubber arm bands attached to it, so I can stretch it around my wrist. Leaving the room, I take a seat in one of the waiting chairs outside of the imaging rooms. These chairs aren’t cushioned.
There’s another TV on the wall playing the same home improvement show from the lobby.
A few other women are seated here as well.
I see one woman on her phone and immediately regret leaving mine in the locker. It would’ve been a great distraction.
Instead, I try to quiet my mind by paying attention to the show where they’re renovating a house for a couple.
My hands fidget with the wristband of the key.
It has those spirals that perfectly fit into each other so I can push them all together and then pull them apart.
I absentmindedly toy with the band while staring at the TV, but not actually absorbing anything I’m watching.
My mind wanders and bounces. From fear to anxiety to loneliness.
To anger at myself for picking a fight with Chase.
It would be nice not to go through this alone.
On the other hand, I don’t want to burden anyone with what’s happening inside these walls today.
Not Chase. Not my friends. I could’ve told Taylor the other night, but I wasn’t ready.
Every time it was on the tip of my tongue, I couldn’t get it out.
Speaking it into existence made it real, and I was still struggling to come to terms with it myself.
If the scans were negative last year, then why am I here today?
Why am I back in the same place a year later doing the same testing?
Why is it me? Is this my reality for the rest of my life?
Yearly checks to make sure they weren’t wrong last year? It’s not fair.
Air rushes from the vents overhead and a shiver runs through me.
I pull the gown tighter around my body, crossing my arms to ward off the chill.
Radiology techs come and go, calling the women that were sitting in the waiting room with me and leading others out down the hall where I came in.
Finally, another tech in pink scrubs calls my name and leads me to the mammogram room.
She tells me I can take a seat while she asks me a few questions and sets up the machine.
She asks for my date of birth, why I’m there today, what side the lump is on, if I’ve had a mammogram before.
She explains the risks and the procedure then asks me to sign the paperwork before she begins.
“Okay, now I’m going to place markers where you said the lump is so we can focus on that area. I’ll also place a marker where they did the last mammogram so we can check both areas. If you’ll open the gown and take your right arm out to expose your right breast, we can start there.”
Untying the gown slowly, I drop the right side and let my arm fall out, exposing my breast to the woman. It’s cold and uncomfortable in this room. Having someone else fondle my breast is weird. It’s all clinical and detached, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
“Can you show me where the lump is?” she asks.
With shaky hands, I point to the top right side of my right breast where the doctor found the lump.
Clearing my throat, I add, “There were actually two spots that she found.” I knead around my breast until I find the spot and hold my finger there for the woman to place the marker.
She replaces my finger with her finger to make sure she feels it.
I catch the slight crease in her eyebrows when she feels it.
She places the little sticker over the lump and then asks for me to find the second lump.
I feel around the underside of my breast, but I can’t pinpoint exactly where the lump is. I start getting frustrated and feel the tears begin to well in my eyes. A cold sweat breaks out over my body and anxiety of not being able to pinpoint the problem area mounts.
“I— I can’t find it. I think it was somewhere around here,” I say flustered and giving up.
“Okay, that’s fine. Let me try,” she says, both soothing me and asking for permission. I nod quickly and wipe the tears from my eyes. She palpates my breast a few times in the area I indicated.
“I’m not really sure either,” she says, “but let’s place the marker here and we’ll take a closer look on the scan. Does that sound good?”
I nod again, and she places the marker.
“Were there any concerns with your other breast?” she asks.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“We’ll start with the right and then we can go to the left after that. It should be easy.”