Part One Discovering Breast Cancer 101

It was a dark and stormy night. Sometimes it feels as if it should have started this way, this whole nightmarish roller coaster ride I am on, but it didn't. Rather it was a two year long journey of my Dr/friend Sandi and myself monitoring a suspicious formation in my left breast, a "lump" I discovered using self examination over two years ago, so around February 2008. Yearly mammograms usually resulted in further testing using ultrasound, but because of the density of my breasts nothing has ever been found. The lump feels like a hard pea with a long tail. It worsens in size as my menses approach and hurts to the touch the nearer my period comes. This is a good sign, I am told by a surgeon who examined the lump and said, "I hope you haven't been losing sleep over this?" Meaning it neither felt irregular or suspicious or cancerous in any way to him. Not satisfied with that answer, my Dr/friend suggests we have two choices. Either have it removed or fly to Vancouver to have a breast MRI. This cannot be done in PG or anywhere else up North, yet. So, the surgeon agreed to requisition me for the procedure and sent the necessary forms to the Lions Gate Hospital. On May 2, I flew to Van by myself,getting a special HawkAir medical rate which gave me an open ticket. I was under the impression from my surgeon that the "people" at this hospital would get to the bottom of this. That they were very good at what they did and if they felt there was an issue to deal with, that they would deal with it there and then. Looking back, I think the surgeon meant if there was a big cancerous mass or other reason to say OMG, that yes, they would then admit me and do what they must to save my life.
But that's not what happened. After overnighting in North Van, I walked, dragging my suitcase, up and down hills for 50 minutes to get to the hospital. It was sunny but chilly, especially with the perspiration rolling down my back. The exercise felt wonderful, especially before sitting in a waiting room with a surgical gown on for 30 minutes, before being subjected to what could only be labelled a mild form of torture. For a breast MRI, a patient lies on their abdomen, arms stretched overhead on a table that has two holes cut out into which you place your breasts. Headphones cover your ears so you can listen to a station not quite on the country or rock station but in some hideous nether land in between. An "escape ball" is placed into one palm. It's in case you can't take it and need to come out, you squeeze and they bring you out, ruining whatever test they are in the middle of. You are now pushed backward into the MRI machine, back in, very deep into the bowels of the machine. It's like a giant cigar tube and you're rolled to the very bottom of it. PLEASE do not put the lid on while I'm in here!! The entire time of all the tests will take 45 minutes. MINUTES that make you wonder if the clock ran out of batteries somewhere along the arduous way?
Claustrophobia is a strange sensation. I never felt it for the brain MRI I had in 2002. Little mirrors were attached so that I could see out very well from inside the long cigar tube and my abdomen was free to catch full breaths so that I could regulate my breathing. Not so with the breast MRI. You cannot breathe. And trying to do so would fetch a sharp, "Don't Move!" from the techs, even in between the nerve wracking loud Boops, Bangs and Bings that the machine makes.It's like a stick and tin can band straight from hell.
I reminded myself fervently that Barry had paid lots of money for me to endure this privilege, that if I could only lie still, then we would have the answers to what we have sought for two long years. My mother had recently succumbed to a very painful wrestling match with pancreatic cancer, passing away April 4, 2009. It was at the forefront of every thought still. If this was cancer, I wanted it dealt with now.
After the test was finished, I was told to wait while they checked the results were legible. When I was told I was free to go, I questioned the tech about when I would see the results and was disheartened to hear it would take two weeks more. She felt bad I had been under the impression something might have been done that day. As I said, this would have only happened had the techs seen something alarmingly wrong.
So, I boarded to plane to fly home more than a little crushed, with another waiting sentence. But what the heck. It had already been two years. What was another few weeks?
And like myself, you will have to wait for the results. This blog is long enough.