Following an abnormal mammogram, I recently spent five long excruciating days waiting for test results from a breast biopsy. Test results typically take two to three business days to return, and as luck would have it, my biopsy was scheduled on a Wednesday, meaning I would get them back either Friday or Monday. After living in a state of heightened anxiety all day Friday, I finally broke down and made a call to the breast center just as 5 p.m. rolled around, to see if results were available. I was referred to my primary care provider, who apparently would have the results if they had been released and then spent an hour on hold before reaching someone who could tell me what was up. The kind woman I finally spoke to let me know the biopsy samples hadn’t been processed and I would have to wait through the weekend until Monday. Ugh.
The biopsy procedure itself was straightforward and easy enough. Following last year’s experience with an eye injection—yes, and actual needle was inserted into my right eye—the experience of having a needle inserted into my ample, cushy breast was a piece of cake. A team of medical personnel were on hand to extract five tissue samples from good old lefty with an ultrasound guided needle. I even got to watch it all on a monitor, while a lovely nurse named Emily distracted me with conversation about everyday life. Considering both my sons were born via C-section, exposing my body to virtual strangers was certainly nothing new. All of my body is a stage, and lefty and righty are merely players.
But the results, the results . . . I was much more concerned about the results than the actual procedure. What would those five tissue samples reveal? To say I was scared AF is an understatement.
I wanted an answer—cancer, not cancer—and I wanted that answer as soon as possible. I wanted to get on with my life and to deal with the next step, whatever it would be. A full weekend of uncertainty was driving me crazy and I had to keep myself occupied. It was hard to keep the images of what cancer would look like out of my head. Treatment options, chemo, radiation—these were all things that happened to other people. I held on tightly to the words of the initial doctor who looked at my mammogram and recommended the biopsy—”It’s probably not cancer.” Those words echoed in my head. “It’s probably not cancer.” But it could be. It could be cancer.
As Monday rolled around and I faced another day of waiting for my phone to ring, I was once again greeted with clenched muscles and an inability to breath. Finally, I had a really good understanding of what anxiety feels like. After worrying with friends over text and messenger, I finally called my primary provider to inquire if the results were available. I spoke with a nurse who said she’d look into it and get back to me. I tried to proceed with my day the best I could. I picked up my son from preschool and made my way to Target to do the week’s grocery shopping. The whole time, buzzing in the back of my mind, my worried thoughts were a constant distraction. Finally, after loading my son and my groceries into the back of my vehicle and settling down into the driver’s seat, my phone rang.
Emily the nurse was on the other end of the line. She said she had my biopsy results and asked if it was a good time. Was there ever really a good time? Sure, sitting in my car in the Target parking lot might not be the best time in the world, but I had been waiting for what felt like an eternity to hear the results, so yes, it was a great time. This is the moment I would learn the most beautiful word in the English language—benign. Sure, it doesn’t sound beautiful when you speak it aloud, but at that moment, I couldn’t stop repeating it in my head. Benign, benign, benign. I repeated the word in my head over and over again even as Emily shared more details. Fibroadenoma . . . common . . . dense breasts . . . all that really mattered in that moment was benign.
Using my phone there in the parking lot, I shared the good news with close friends and family, until my four-year-old got impatient with me and insisted we get moving. The sense of relief that washed over me following the call was immense and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It felt like an incredible weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I could breathe again and for the rest of the day I experienced a state of euphoria.
As a recovering Catholic experiencing a sense of euphoria, I wasn’t surprised to find guilt lurking right around the corner. I had to ask myself, why was I so lucky when so many others I’ve known were not? Of course, I have no answers to that question and only know there’s really nothing quite as unfair as fucking cancer.
It’s human nature to take our good fortune and health for granted. It’s just how we’re built. I’m extremely grateful for the benign outcome of my biopsy, but I’m not sure what will serve as a reminder to not take it all for granted. The bruise from my biopsy will fade, just as surely as the memory of my anxiety waiting for the results. It’s very difficult to fight human nature and not just jump back into old patterns of behavior. But, until that happens, I plan on reveling in all the mundane little things in life I have regained the privilege to complain about. It truly is a privilege to complain and whine about the little annoyances we run into during our day to day lives, the things we think are ruining our day. The jerk that parked too close to your car and is making it nearly impossible for you to secure your kid in his car seat. The slow ass driver who is making you a few minutes late to pick-up your kid from preschool. The douche canoe who ordered five blended frappuccinos in the drive-thru line at Starbucks. Bitch away and be happy these are the most serious problems you’re facing.
They say don’t sweat the small stuff. I say fuck that. Sweat the small stuff. Sweat ALL the small stuff. Then thank your lucky ass stars you have the privilege to do so, because you do not have fucking cancer. I’ll take the small stuff over the big stuff anyday.
The biopsy procedure itself was straightforward and easy enough. Following last year’s experience with an eye injection—yes, and actual needle was inserted into my right eye—the experience of having a needle inserted into my ample, cushy breast was a piece of cake. A team of medical personnel were on hand to extract five tissue samples from good old lefty with an ultrasound guided needle. I even got to watch it all on a monitor, while a lovely nurse named Emily distracted me with conversation about everyday life. Considering both my sons were born via C-section, exposing my body to virtual strangers was certainly nothing new. All of my body is a stage, and lefty and righty are merely players.
But the results, the results . . . I was much more concerned about the results than the actual procedure. What would those five tissue samples reveal? To say I was scared AF is an understatement.
I wanted an answer—cancer, not cancer—and I wanted that answer as soon as possible. I wanted to get on with my life and to deal with the next step, whatever it would be. A full weekend of uncertainty was driving me crazy and I had to keep myself occupied. It was hard to keep the images of what cancer would look like out of my head. Treatment options, chemo, radiation—these were all things that happened to other people. I held on tightly to the words of the initial doctor who looked at my mammogram and recommended the biopsy—”It’s probably not cancer.” Those words echoed in my head. “It’s probably not cancer.” But it could be. It could be cancer.
As Monday rolled around and I faced another day of waiting for my phone to ring, I was once again greeted with clenched muscles and an inability to breath. Finally, I had a really good understanding of what anxiety feels like. After worrying with friends over text and messenger, I finally called my primary provider to inquire if the results were available. I spoke with a nurse who said she’d look into it and get back to me. I tried to proceed with my day the best I could. I picked up my son from preschool and made my way to Target to do the week’s grocery shopping. The whole time, buzzing in the back of my mind, my worried thoughts were a constant distraction. Finally, after loading my son and my groceries into the back of my vehicle and settling down into the driver’s seat, my phone rang.
Emily the nurse was on the other end of the line. She said she had my biopsy results and asked if it was a good time. Was there ever really a good time? Sure, sitting in my car in the Target parking lot might not be the best time in the world, but I had been waiting for what felt like an eternity to hear the results, so yes, it was a great time. This is the moment I would learn the most beautiful word in the English language—benign. Sure, it doesn’t sound beautiful when you speak it aloud, but at that moment, I couldn’t stop repeating it in my head. Benign, benign, benign. I repeated the word in my head over and over again even as Emily shared more details. Fibroadenoma . . . common . . . dense breasts . . . all that really mattered in that moment was benign.
Using my phone there in the parking lot, I shared the good news with close friends and family, until my four-year-old got impatient with me and insisted we get moving. The sense of relief that washed over me following the call was immense and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It felt like an incredible weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I could breathe again and for the rest of the day I experienced a state of euphoria.
As a recovering Catholic experiencing a sense of euphoria, I wasn’t surprised to find guilt lurking right around the corner. I had to ask myself, why was I so lucky when so many others I’ve known were not? Of course, I have no answers to that question and only know there’s really nothing quite as unfair as fucking cancer.
It’s human nature to take our good fortune and health for granted. It’s just how we’re built. I’m extremely grateful for the benign outcome of my biopsy, but I’m not sure what will serve as a reminder to not take it all for granted. The bruise from my biopsy will fade, just as surely as the memory of my anxiety waiting for the results. It’s very difficult to fight human nature and not just jump back into old patterns of behavior. But, until that happens, I plan on reveling in all the mundane little things in life I have regained the privilege to complain about. It truly is a privilege to complain and whine about the little annoyances we run into during our day to day lives, the things we think are ruining our day. The jerk that parked too close to your car and is making it nearly impossible for you to secure your kid in his car seat. The slow ass driver who is making you a few minutes late to pick-up your kid from preschool. The douche canoe who ordered five blended frappuccinos in the drive-thru line at Starbucks. Bitch away and be happy these are the most serious problems you’re facing.
They say don’t sweat the small stuff. I say fuck that. Sweat the small stuff. Sweat ALL the small stuff. Then thank your lucky ass stars you have the privilege to do so, because you do not have fucking cancer. I’ll take the small stuff over the big stuff anyday.
