Limbo

I’m in Limbo.  The space between what you thought you knew and what you now realize you have no clue about.

See, I had a mammogram last week.  My first since turning 40.  I’d had one in 2004 — after Kerry lost and I started drowning my sorrows in boxed wine and comfort food, but before I saw my ass in the mirror at the movie theatre and resolved to get my body into shape.  At that point I was 37 and was growing deeply worried about dying of breast cancer as my first cousin Cheryse had at around that age.  My nurse practitioner was sympathetic and ordered the scan to ease my mind. It was clear, but it was another chime in the wake up call that led me to Weight Watchers and running.

The technician last week was the same woman who had done my imaging in 2004.  She looked at my last images and looked at me and said, “Wow! You’re so much thinner!”  ”I lost 40 pounds,” I told her proudly.  ”I started running.  I finished a marathon in 2006.”  

She praised me and oohed and aahed over the lack of fat in any of my images. I lapped up her compliments happily.   As I was snapping up that strange poncho-like top they give you to wear (Why the robe? Why not just ask you to strip in the imaging room?) she said, “I’m not allowed to say, you know, but I think your pictures look fine.  If there is any problem, they’ll call you.”  We parted with warm words and I smiled all day, secretly congratulating myself for my lean physique and all the hard work that had gone into it.

Yesterday at 2pm, the scheduler from the breast health center wiped that smug grin right off my face.  She said the radiologist wanted a closer look at my left breast. “Expect to be here 1 1/2 to 2 hours,” she said. “The radiologist will go over everything with you.”  We had a cut and dry conversation.  I scheduled the appointment for this Thursday at 9:30am, we discussed my insurance.  That was that.

I called Brandon. I cried.  I called Mom.  I cried.  My office door was closed, by my wall doesn’t go all the way up to the door.  My wracking sobs echoed down the hall, I’m sure.  A sweet young co-worker emailed to ask if I was okay.  All I could think of were my boys.  I rocked in my chair, my arms wrapped around my body, hugging myself tightly.  My little boys.  

My boss is a breast cancer survivor.  Thank God for her!  I closed her doors; I’m sure she thought I was quitting.  I told her the news and I could see the fear in her eyes.  ”First,” she said, “stay positive.  You don’t know what they saw, you don’t know what caused the radiologist to want another look.  Have you spoken to your doctor?”  

Well, duh.  It’s kind of amazing how one moment you can be a competent grown professional woman and the next you are a wimpy scaredy cat.  In all my self-pity, I became the typical passive patient. That snapped me out of my haze.  I returned to my desk and started dialing.  Meanwhile, my sister, the surgical nurse, emailed to say the same.  CALL YOUR DOCTOR!

When the mammography nurse from my GYN practice returned my call, she read me the radiologist report.  ”A discrepancy,” she said, “he wants additional views, ‘just to be sure.’”  Her words didn’t really assuage my fears, but it was time to go home and make dinner, so I pulled myself together and headed home.

So here I am.  I still have 36 hours to wait before I get any more answers. I am trying to stay positive, I know that if the news is the worst, I can fight it.  I’ve run hundreds if not thousands of miles, including 26.2 consecutively!  I’ve carried, borne and nursed two babies.  I’ve raised millions of dollars.  I have the love of a tremendous husband, children, parents, sister, brother and sisters-in-law.  I have some of the finest friends I’ve had in my life at this very moment in time, just when I might need them most.