Greetings, friends! Here’s to a (belated) Happy New Year in 2020 and (very belated) hopes that your 2019 was a good one. I’m afraid I’ve been off the grid a lot longer than I intended. During my absence from Bloggyville, I’ve been dealing with various aspects of life including more health (Lupus and Gastroparesis) complications, several deaths of various friends and family members, and emergency house repairs (and appliance replacements). During my time away, besides the day job, I’ve also opened a homemade soap store, written two new manuscripts, created more art for the house, updated some backdoor stuff on my blog, and otherwise kept myself busy with reading and other artsy projects which I’ll elaborate on in a future post.
However, in the interest of not going all over the map in a single post, today I would like to share the details of just one of my recent adventures. (Those of you who have been with me a while know I have the strangest things happen to me and how I like to “at least get a funny story” out of the ordeal.) WARNING: If you are reading this in a public area, be on notice that this will likely make you laugh out loud. (At least it hasn’t failed to make any of my personal audiences snort with amusement, so if you’re not laughing by the time you reach the end, you’re taking it way too seriously.) [Also, apologies in advance to the men who may find this a little too personal – I know the ladies will completely “get it.”]
Several months ago, I started experiencing a pain under my left arm. I figured it was a swollen lymph node, and that it would probably go away sooner than later. By the time I next saw my rheumatologist for my Lupus, it was still sore and had grown in size, so I told my doctor that it felt like a doorknob in my armpit. (Of course, I meant in reference to size – not an actual doorknob.) So, you can probably already guess that she sent me for a mammogram.
Meanwhile, my sister, Michelle, was having mammary issues of her own and had to get a breast biopsy. After my mammogram, they found something suspicious, so I, too, was scheduled for a biopsy. (It may be a good time to note that Michelle and I go to different medical clinics, so at no time did we have any of the same doctors.) It was around this same time that I was also dealing with an intense amount of shoulder pain from my Lupus. I regularly get steroid shots in each shoulder, but I can only get them four times per year, and it was too soon to get new injections. After Michelle’s biopsy, she came home and told me exactly what to expect: She said they had her lie on her side with one arm raised over her head. Then they injected her with a local anesthetic, made a small incision, removed several pieces of tissue, inserted a titanium clip inside to know where the tissue was taken, taped up the incision, then – and here comes the bad part – did another mammogram to make sure the clip was in place.
Ladies, even if you’ve never had a breast biopsy, you’re still probably cringing by now, just imagining the pain of a mammogram following an incision and the digging around inside to collect tissue specimens. Men, if you don’t believe us, go out to the tool bench, put your junk in a vice, then close it all the way. Wait! I forgot the part where before you start, you should raise the vice to about six inches higher than your junk will reach, mount it on the wall, then proceed to insert your junk and close the vice. That’s how a mammogram works… You have to reach around and hold a handle at the back of the machine that’s about three inches past your fingertips, and then they clamp your puppy in until it’s flatter than a pancake and raise the machine until you’re standing on your tippy-toes, and just when you think it can’t get any worse, they raise the machine once more and tell you to hold your breath while they get the first image. Then after they get the image, just when you think sweet relief might be in your future, they – while keeping your boob smashed securely – rotate the machine sideways to the point that you think it might just rip your breast from your torso. And then they do the other side.
So, Michelle’s report that I could look forward to this after the actual procedure didn’t give me much hope that it would be a pleasant experience. However, the part that actually seemed more excruciating to me was that I would have to lie still with my arm raised over my head for half an hour. (With my shoulders the way they were, I could barely raise my arms for the time it took to brush my own hair, much less for an extended period like that.)
A few days later, I was all smiles and bravado as I walked into the women’s clinic. They offered me counselling before-hand, but I declined, feeling fully knowledgeable of what I could expect in my procedure. I changed into a paper gown and wrapped a sheet around me as I waited to be called to the surgical area. As I followed the nurse, a door opened and I saw a well-lit room with a comfortable-enough looking bed and a tray of surgical tools. And then we kept walking. We passed a couple of more similar rooms and then she escorted me into a large, dark room with a table with a hole in it and some steps leading up to it, that can best be described as some medieval type of torture chamber device. (Seriously, in retrospect, I would have rather been hit in the head with one of those sticks with the spiky ball at the end of a chain!) There was a huge scary-looking machine that put out this high-pitched hum, and nothing of comfort in the room except a boring painting of a farm on the wall near the table.
“Okay, climb on up there, and lie on your stomach. Place your left breast in the hole and raise both arms over your head,” the nurse instructed.
“Wait, what?” This was not what I had envisioned.
As I climbed up the steps and got situated on the table with my left puppy in the hole, I was instructed to look to the right and place both arms over my head. So, there I was, staring at my own shoulder and the dumb farm painting and feeling very much like Ol’ Bessie there in the barn being hooked up to a milking machine, when all of a sudden, this clamp thing closed on my free-hanging boob and tightened. A lot. And then it tightened some more. And some more. And then, I’m not sure, but I think it twisted the darn thing in a complete circle. Or two. And that was before any local anesthetic!
And then the nurse raised the table. By the sheer force of the clamp, my entire upper body was glued to the table. Seriously. If I’d have sneezed, I think I would have literally ripped my nipple off. As the table rose, I felt very much like the unwilling volunteer of a creepy magician’s act. The stupid farm sank down below my line of vision, and I could see where the wall met the ceiling. And out of the corner of my eye, I could make out what looked to be a trapezoidal lighted thing that I could only imagine was some sort of FIRE indicator.
“Okay, you’re doing great. Now, let me go get the doctor,” the nurse said.
You mean the doctor isn’t even here yet? I was ready to be done, and the doctor was, as it turned out, busy and would be there in a few minutes! The nurse left again after she told me of the doctor’s delay, and all I could think was: If the building catches on fire, I’m screwed! Seriously. I imagined how many different ways things could play out, and in every scenario, I was dead and the medical examiner and his buddies were laughing at the corpse with one extremely long hooter! By the time I imagined being taxidermized for a freak show and having people line up to take selfies with the Amazing Long Booby Lady, the doctor came into the room. Of course, it could have been the janitor for all I knew, because I was pinned in place staring at the wall.
At first, no one said a word, and then I felt the machine tighten around my breast, and I think a little of my intestines got twisted up in there, because at that point, I could feel the clamp pinch all the way down to my toes. Then someone said something. But not to me. Turns out there were several men and a couple of women down there hanging around under my aching breast. I think they were playing jump rope with it or something because they sounded as if they were having a fine time chatting among themselves; meanwhile no one said a word to me about anything that was going on. The good news was by this time, my sore shoulders were the last thing on my mind.
About 9 hours later, they finished collecting all the samples they needed, and the nurse was left alone with me. She said as soon as they checked the samples on an x-ray or some other machine, they would be able to unclamp me and let me down. I was certain it was a little after midnight when she let me down and released my three-foot long breast from its prison, and that’s when I got to see the clock and only 40 minutes had passed. She had to tape and bandage my poor stretchy, black and blue booby, and then I got to sling it over my shoulder and go get the afore-dreaded mammogram to check for the titanium clip. Of course, by this time, that mammogram was nothing compared to what I’d just been through, so I didn’t complain.
To conclude, both Sister Michelle and I ended up with negative test results, so it’ll be another few months before either of us have to endure that kind of procedure torture again. I’m still attempting to convince my sister to go see my doctor next time [insert wicked laugh track here], but she’s getting even with me by goading me to “tell your stretchy-booby story again” each time we encounter someone else who hasn’t yet heard it. (So much for my own modesty.) At any rate, I’ve got a lot of other (less personal) stories to share, so I’ll (really) be back soon.
Let’s talk: Have you ever injured your shoulder so that you couldn’t lift your arm? Have you ever been pinned in one place for more than a half-hour? Have you ever seen a modern medieval torture device? (Wait, maybe I don’t want to know the answer to that one.)
P.S. Even though I am making light of my experience with a life-saving diagnostic, I am not making light of the diagnostic test itself. I’m fully aware of the seriousness of breast cancer… One of the people I mentioned who was lost in my absence was Sister Michelle’s sister who, after years of fighting, lost her battle to triple negative metastatic breast cancer, leaving a husband, two children, and a family who loved her in its wake.
#StereotacticBreastBiopsy #LupusComplications #Life
Surprise! I have yet another featured author for you to read about today. Cath Filby is participating in Britain’s Next Best Seller and her pre-order period ends next Friday. As such, she could use your support. Enjoy!
I am retired, have been married for forty-two years and I had three children. My eldest son died when he was 17 years old when he was walking along a road and was hit by a motorbike. My other two children are 38 years and 34 years old and I have four grandchildren.
‘Do Or Die – A Journey through Breast Cancer’ is a two-part self-help health book
It is different because it provides both a detailed and optimistic account of a person’s journey through breast cancer, along with easy-to-read, practical information, which can contribute both to recovery for a sufferer, as well as a general improvement in their health and well-being for everyone.
Rachel Carrera, Novelist 