Chapter 43 #2
She wipes down the machine and then beckons me forward.
It looks like an oversized microscope attached to a column.
There’s a flat plate on the bottom of the machine for my breast to sit on.
She lifts my breast and places it on the plate, telling me to move closer as she pulls my breast away from my body and fits it on the plate.
The machine is cool against my skin where it presses into my ribcage.
Once my entire breast lays on top of the plate, she tells me to pivot the left side of my body away from the machine.
She manipulates my breast in the correct position on the bottom plate.
“Lift your right arm and place it on the side of the machine.” I do as she instructs, resting my arm along the top of the outer portion of the machine.
She continues to clamp down the top plate until my breast is squished between the two plates.
It hurts slightly, but more discomfort than true pain.
When she is satisfied my breast is flat enough and in the right position, she walks back over to her computer, clicking a few buttons to power up the machine.
She tells me to hold my breath for a count of ten while she takes the images.
I inhale a deep breath and hold it, counting down in my head as the whirl of the machine gets louder.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The sound echoes through the room and then there’s silence.
“You can breathe now,” she says, coming back over to unclamp my breast and reposition it to catch a different angle.
She repeats the action again, compressing my breast down tight, telling me to reposition my arm.
Reposition my body. She goes back to the computer, tells me to hold my breath and the whole process starts twice more.
The noise from the machine quiets again and she asks, “Are you doing okay?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and croak out a soft “yes.”
“You can take your arm down. We’re done with this side.”
Slowly, I lower my arm from the machine as she releases my breast. Once freed, I slip the gown back over my shoulder and cover my right breast.
“We’re going to do the left side now,” she says, changing out the film plates.
I shrug the robe off my left shoulder, removing my arm and exposing my left breast. She asks me to step closer to the machine and lifts my breast onto the plate again, repeating the same instructions as before.
Turn the right side of my body away from the machine.
Step closer. Closer. Breathe in. She cranks the lever to lower the plate.
“Lift your left arm and rest it on the machine.”
Cranking.
Flattening.
Pressure until the slight tinge of hurt.
“Okay, hold still.” Clicking of keys on the keyboard. Instructions to hold my breath. A deep inhale for ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“You can breathe.”
The repositioning of my breast on the plate to get a different angle. More cranking. Flattening. I’m going through all the motions, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m disassociating as we repeat the imaging again and then again.
When she finishes with the last image, she unhooks the machine and frees my breast. I quickly cover up and tie the gown, crossing my arms in obvious discomfort.
I feel exposed.
Bare. Raw. Vulnerable.
All emotions I’m not comfortable with and especially not around strangers or in public.
“I’m going to show these images to the radiologist. You can just sit tight for a bit.
I’ll let you know if they need to do an ultrasound as well.
” She leads me back out of the room to the small waiting area where I was before.
The hardback chairs. The home improvement show on the TV.
Other women waiting for their own exams. I sit in silence, exchanging a polite smile with the woman across from me.
Hoping—dreading—that an ultrasound will be next.
The hallway is abuzz with movement. Nurses and technicians coming in and out, calling new patients back, instructing them on how to undress.
Other patients finishing their exams, re-dressing and leaving.
Rinse, wash, repeat. Finally, a new nurse, again in pink scrubs—they must love pink around here—calls me back for the ultrasound.
I knew it would come to this. A pit forms in my stomach.
She has my chart and guides me into the dark room.
There’s a hospital bed against the wall covered in sheets.
The ultrasound machine sits beside it. She instructs me to lie back on the bed and to let the gown fall open.
I don’t have to take it off this time. She doesn’t talk very much, she just goes through the motions.
She boots up the computer, checks the gel, clicks around to open my chart.
She confirms my name and date of birth. Placing a washcloth on my chest just below my breast, she says, “I’m going to have you raise your arm and rest it above your head.
” I do what she says, and she nods when my arm is in the right spot.
“Just relax. The gel is warm, so it shouldn’t be too bad. I’m going to use this wand to poke around, and we’ll just see what comes up.”
She doesn’t make conversation, for which I’m thankful.
I wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation as if everything was normal right now anyways and I respect that she lets me sit in silence while she does her work.
She squirts the warm jelly onto the tool, placing it on my skin and pressing slightly to maneuver it around.
She does it all with one hand, not taking her eyes off the computer in front of her.
She smooths the gel around so the tool glides across my skin.
Repositioning a few times and clicking on the screen.
So much clicking. Clicks to mark whatever she sees.
Clicks to measure it out. I’m not entirely sure since she doesn’t talk me through it, but the clicking continues until she’s satisfied with whatever she found.
She moves on to a new location and repeats the same movements.
Click, click, click. Rolling up the paddle against my skin, maneuvering the jelly to change the angle again and again.
After a few minutes, she breaks the silence by saying, “Sit tight. I’m going to grab the radiologist so he can take a look as well.
” She steps out of the room and closes the door behind her.
This is when the panic sets in. This didn’t happen the first time I had a mammogram or an ultrasound.
What does she see that he needs to look at? How bad is it? Are they sure they know? Is it something I missed? I lay my head back and close my eyes, taking deep breaths to center myself and to calm my racing heart.
It’s just a precaution, I try to tell myself.
They just want to make sure that they’re sure. It’s nothing. It’s not going to be anything.
What feels like hours, but is probably only a couple minutes, ticks by before the door opens again.
The ultrasound tech is followed by the radiologist. He greets me politely and introduces himself, but I don’t pay attention to his name.
My mind is going crazy trying to plan out all the eventualities of what’s about to happen.
I’m both in fear and in denial that they might find something.
They talk in hushed tones over the computer where the tech points out a few things on the screen.
The doctor says something like “let’s see here” and grabs the wand again, squirting more jelly.
It glides across my skin as he rolls it around to the place the nurse indicated on the screen.
He presses harder, maneuvering again, looking intently.
Maneuvering again. Pressing harder. Maneuvering again, eyes on the screen.
Scrutinizing. Talking quietly to himself.
I can’t take my eyes off where he’s looking at the screen. Can I see it? Do I want to see it? Is there anything to see? I wish I knew what I was looking at so I knew what he was looking at.
He switches locations to the other spot on my breast, but must not see anything because he only takes a cursory glance and then he’s back to the top of my breast where the larger lump was.
He presses harder, maneuvers the wand, trying to get a different angle.
He keeps moving it around and staring at the screen.
Finally, he gives up and puts the paddle back into the holder attached to the computer.
He hands me a washcloth to wipe off the jelly and says the words that I’ve been fearing the most.
“We’re going to need a biopsy.” He must see the fear on my face because he continues, “It’s undetermined what the lump is at this time. We just want to get in there and take a sample to make sure that everything is okay. Do you have any questions?”
I’m sure I’ll wish I would’ve asked one of the million questions I have, but I don’t. I’m spiraling. My world has been tilted on his access.
What is the biopsy? What are they going to do? How does that work? How soon do I need it?
These are all questions floating around in my head, but I can’t voice any of them. I’m in shock. I sit there frozen, holding back the tears in my eyes. He lightly taps my knee and says, “We’ll get you scheduled soon. It will be okay until then.”
I’m still lying on the bed as the tech closes out of my chart.
“You can go get dressed and then you’re all set. They’ll call you to schedule. No need to check out on your way.”
I tie the gown together as I sit up. Standing on weakened legs, I walk out of the room and back to the changing room.
The key is around my wrist, and I take it off to unlock my locker.
Take off the gown. Put on my bra. Put on my shirt.
Grab my purse. Check the mirror to make sure my clothes are in place.
Make sure there is no evidence of tears on my face.
It’s fresh and clear for now. The mental to-do list I check off keeps me preoccupied.
Keeps me together until I can fall apart.
Satisfied that I’m holding it together for the moment, I clear my throat and leave the dressing room.
I exit through the door I entered and avoid eye contact with everyone in the main waiting area on my way out of the building.
I fumble around in my purse for my keys as I walk to the car, feeling the impending collapse of my carefully constructed facade.
Slamming the door shut behind me, I throw my purse into the passenger seat and drop the keys into my lap.
I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes to stop the tears. My heart is racing. My breathing is staggered. My mind is whirling. Everything feels too heavy. Yet at the same time, a numbing sensation creeps in.
I lean into the numbness to get myself home.
It feels like I’m watching myself from above as I insert the key into the ignition and turn the car on.
My arm moves to put the car into gear and I begin to drive home on autopilot.
Tears fall but I don’t feel them. My breaths even out as I focus on the physical sensations of driving.
Nothingness follows swiftly. I don’t know how I managed to get home, but soon I’m pulling into my driveway and around the back of the house.
I struggle to get the key into the deadbolt, and that’s when the nothingness fades and the spiral begins.
The key finally turns, and I push the door open.
My purse is on my forearm and when I yank the key out of the lock, it hits the glass bowl on the edge of the entry table.
Glass shatters all around me. Anger bubbles up.
At myself for being alone. At my doctor for finding the lump.
At Chase for letting me push him away. At my friends for not knowing what’s going on with me even though I don’t share. Outrage at the situation.
I throw my purse down, the contents spilling and mixing with the glass on the floor. I swipe everything off the island on my way by, making an even bigger mess on my way upstairs. I can’t find the urge to care that I’ve made a mess I’ll have to clean later.
I just want to fall into bed and sleep until this nightmare ends.