I’m sitting in yet another waiting room at Casa del Cov. However this isn‘t a room I am familiar with. This time it’s another part of my somewhat defective body under scrutiny. My breasts. They’re lumpy. I can feel lumps. The GP can feel lumps. The breast consultant can feel lumps. So that makes them officially lumpy.
Today I’m having my first ever mammogram and an ultrasound to determine if these lumps are nice innocuous not going to kill me lumps or potentially killer lumps. On the drive here, through the beautiful autumn morning light, squinting through the watery sun and taking in the mindboggling variation of colours of the remaining leaves on the trees, I thought to myself, I can’t seriously SERIOUSLY be the lucky recipient of two cancers. Can I? My wonky gene suggests that I could be. The multiple nukings for my thyroid cancer increases my risk. So yes, there is a chance I may indeed have a breast cancer. Indications from the GP and the breast consultant are that the lumps are cystic, a result of changes due to my early, treatment induced, menopause. However, life’s recent curved balls have caused me to have a possibly unhealthy mistrust of life. I find it hard to trust that anything good can happen when there is a chance of something bad. Living in a heightened state of anxiety, dread, mistrust has become my norm. Theoretically being this highly strung should make me thin but yeah well....still waiting.
Just had the mammogram. Aside from the room smelling like puke, there was nothing particularly unpleasant about it. I was worried about the breast sandwich being very painful but it was absolutely fine. I had a couple of paracetamol before. Not sure if that helped but it probably made me feel better psychologically! The main feeling was a bit of pressure and a pulling sensation on the skin under my armpit. The radiographer was professional & kind. I was in and out in 10 minutes. I now sit and wait whilst a clinician looks at the images and I will then have an ultrasound. The two sets of images will be put together and then we shall see. I may get the all clear or they may want to do a biopsy or drain a cyst. Thanks to the information the hospital sent in advance of my screening, I feel mentally prepared for what might happen.
There is a marked difference in the breast cancer process to my experiences as a thyroid cancer patient. Breast screening is in a separate part of the hospital. There are pot plants, big screens with lovely autumnal images, the radio is on. The information sent to patients before hospital appointments is clinically comprehensive and it also acknowledges the emotional strain of finding a breast lump. It’s slick but it recognises the intimate nature of the investigations. As a rarer cancer, it’s inevitable that thyroid cancer doesn’t warrant its own area but I’m sure more could be done to better inform patients, to acknowledge the fear and create a less clinical feeling in the same way the breast service have.
Much of the anxiety I have experienced during my cancer clusterfuck has been entirely down to waiting and uncertainty. If I was better informed about what happens and when, perhaps I would have coped better. These days, whilst I can’t say I love the wait for scan or blood results, I’ve learned to coexist with the fear. In the early days, I was paralysed by it. Cancer patients refer to this wait as scanxiety. My mind has gone to very dark places during these periods of waiting. I have mentally planned my funeral, I have tried to imagine the wingman moving on and sharing a bed with someone else (no it’s not Geri Halliwell if you’re reading this Neil). I’ve thought about all the things I might miss-graduations, weddings, grandchildren. It’s the worst kind of mental deathloop. And you can be on it for weeks on end. Waiting for a phone call, waiting for the appointment to come through. Waiting waiting waiting. Trying to read every micro expression or inflection in a voice. It’s route one to a certain kind of insanity.
After much waiting today I’ve been called again, but instead of going to discuss my mammogram results with the Dr, I have to have “some further imaging”. Nothing says you’re fucked like “further imaging” in my mind. Last time I had “further imaging” it didn‘t end so well. I’ve gone from jokey, chatty me to silent, terrified me as the radiographer goes back to work sandwiching my left breast between bits of plastic again. I put my bra and top back on for the second time that day and shuffle back to wait again. It’s just me and my very chatty brain for company. There are other women in the waiting area, but none of us feel like talking. My brain isn‘t being especially helpful at this point, providing me with a constant barrage of what ifs and general end of days scenarios. Hence why I’m distracting myself with writing this diatribe.
Been called again, this time to a room with a Dr and a chaperone. Gone were the lovely TV screens showing seasonally appropriate images. The only images on the screens in this room were somewhat over sized images of my undeniably over sized breasts. Or rather what looked like X-rays of my breasts. My first thought was “wow they look pretty perky actually” followed by “oh arse that’s cos they were propped up on some plastic trays like massive chicken fillets on display at the butcher”. The Dr was lovely. She pointed to the images “these are your breasts”. It’s was like a dinner party introduction. Clearly I giggled and wanted to crack a really inappropriate nervous joke but I think I might be growing up so I didn’t. After introducing me to the innards of my breasts, the Dr very quickly told me she saw nothing to worry about on the images but would like to ultrasound them just to be certain.
Off comes the top and bra for the third time today. I was handed two pieces of kitchen roll and asked to lie on the bed with these insubstantial wafer thin bits of paper. I asked what they were for. The chaperone said to cover myself up. Ooookay. I think that ship may have sailed lady but god love you for your empathy. Before I even had time to waft the kitchen roll near my breasts, lube was deployed all over my chest (weird) and I get a full and comprehensive ultrasound guided tour (with commentary) of both breasts. The dr explained what she was doing, she was happy to stop and look more closely when I pointed something out or noted that she was on a spot where I had felt a lump. Again, nothing to report. I don’t have dense breasts she declares and these are the sort of breasts she is happy to report on. Having felt like I was pretty much on top of the anxiety I had been feeling for the last few weeks, from finding the lump to the “further imaging” escalation, I realised...not so much. It was such a relief. A huge huge relief. I think I may have threatened to hug the poor woman before realising a) covid b) still topless and c) covered in lube.
A few observations.
mammograms are not how I’d choose to spend a few minutes but they are uncomfortable at worst (in my experience anyway)
The NHS is still open for non covid business. From my initial consultation with the GP to today, it’s been just over 2 weeks. In that period I have had an initial phone consultation, a physical examination with the GP, a physical examination and a consultation with a breast consultant at Casa del Cov as well as today’s mammograms and ultrasound alongside a consultation with a breast specialist. I think that’s pretty bloody remarkabl, leaving aside all the other stuff the NHS is facing.
I wondered how I would have felt had I been a man going through all this. Naturally breast screening is very much geared towards women but men also get breast cancer. Beyoncé’s father has been diagnosed with it. In the U.K. 1 in 100 breast cancer diagnosis are of men. (CRUK). I know what it’s like to have a rare cancer so I guess I’m hyper sensitive to this.
Although I was sorely tempted to insert some of the many many comedic words in place of the word breast, I didn’t. Breast cancer is still sexualised. It’s pink washed. Women who have breast cancer go through being slashed, burned and poisoned to have a chance of living to a ripe old age. Even then, a shocking 30% of these women will go on to have a recurrence or develop stage 4 breast cancer (where the cancer spreads to other parts of the body; bones, liver, lungs & brain are some of the most common areas). This isn’t curable. 31 people a day. A DAY die from breast cancer. So using reductive pub language to discuss breast cancer feels totally inappropriate to me.
Check your breasts. Less than half of women in the U.K. regularly check their breasts. There’s loads of guidance on how to do it and if you’re not sure, ask your GP to show you. It could save your life.
I don’t have breast cancer. I’m so relieved but today, probably in the time it’s taken you to read this, another woman will have been diagnosed with breast cancer. 1 woman every 10 minutes today will hear life shattering news. I’m so bloody glad it wasn’t me but I walk with every cancer patient.