Sometimes Life Rolls Right Over You

Confession time. Part of my rant last week was because I went in for another mammogram on April 9th. Yeah, another one. My fourth in a year.

I wish I could say I found the lump through an intended self-exam. In reality, I was working on some accounting stuff while watching a new episode of The Walking Dead at the end of March, 2017. The back of my left hand brushed against my left breast as I reached for a receipt. And I felt something hard through my t-shirt.

My first thought was "lint ball".  Sometimes, lint balls from the clothes dryer magnetically stick to my t-shirts and bras instead of getting sucked into the filter, and when I'm still half asleep while dressing, I don't notice. At a commercial, I went to the bathroom to fish out the lint ball.

It wasn't a lint ball. The hard thing was definitely under my skin. I yelled for DH and asked if he felt the same thing I did. Never one to refuse a request  to feel me up, he checked. And frowned. And checked again.

So I called my gynecologist the next morning. She got me in for a check-up a couple of days later. She checked. And frowned. And checked again.

She had an appointment for me at the diagnostic center the following Monday for a full mammogram. The radiologist didn't like the look of the x-rays, so the tech trundled me over to the ultrasound room for another look. Yep, definitely a mass inside my breast.

So I went back to my gynecologist with the test results, and she referred me to a surgeon. He checked. And frowned. And checked again. Then he did his own ultrasound and a needle aspiration. A couple of days later, he called. The biopsy results were inconclusive, but he didn't want to slice and dice without being sure. "We're going to keep an eye on it."

That was the beginning of April, and he wanted me back in August. Once again, he checked my lump. And frowned. And checked again.

Another ultrasound mammogram. Another needle biopsy. Another inconclusive result.

So Easter weekend, the surgeon's office called to set up my appointment at the diagnostic center for the whole kabob once again. X-rays showed a change to the mass. Once again, I was trundled to the ultrasound room for another look.

This time, the radiologist came in to talk to me after she looked at all the pics and comparing them to last year's. It's pretty serious if the radiologist bothers to talk to you. She had me recite everything that had been done. And frowned.

"We need to core," she said. "I'll talk to your surgeon."

Apparently, he didn't argue. The next morning, a nurse from the diagnostic center called with my appointment this week.

A core is a little more than a needle aspiration and a little less than a lumpectomy. The radiologist who did the procedure seemed pleased with the quality of the samples she pulled. Now, it's a matter of waiting for the pathology reports.

So right now, I'm sitting in my recliner with an ice pack in my bra and desperately wishing for an NSAID. (Acetaminophen doesn't do a whole lot for me.) Most of the bruising is from the doctor's generous application of lidocaine shots prior to the coring.

She also inserted a titanium clip into the hole to mark the spot. The x-ray tech took a few more pictures to mark the spot of the clip before they sent me home.

Last night, DH and I had a little fun with his stud-finder. Yep, there's definitely a bit of metal in my boob.

I don't know what's going to happen next. DH is a little upset I'm planning for the worst case scenario. I'm not being negative. I really don't want to die. But I've seen first-hand the effects of chemotherapy on people. Chemo brain is a real thing, and my ability to write will be limited if I do have to be treated for breast cancer. If the worst-case scenario happens, it will play havoc with my 2018 writing schedule, not merely delay it.

If it's not cancer, then life goes on as normal, and I stick to my original plan.

But regardless, I find being Schroedinger's cat damn annoying.