The Nightmare - Part 2 by Tina Wagner Mattern
The Blessing of Friends
In the days following the discovery of the lump in my breast, I did what I usually do when confronted with something worrisome; tried to cram the whole scary situation into a deep dark hole, jumping up and down on its head whenever it attempted to crawl out.
It was hard for me to put into words the emotions I was feeling, but I needed the comfort of close friends and family, so e-mail became my messenger of choice. The first one I sent out to everyone was pretty low-key, but most of the recipients read right through it to the terror between the lines:
Hi all! Got some rather interesting news at my mammography appointment. It seems I have a lump. Probably nothing, but you know, prayers can't hurt, right? I'll be seeing my PCP in a couple weeks. Other than that, nothing new.
Love, Lumpy ~ and I don't mean oatmeal
My cousin Jude was on the phone within hours. She cut right through to my unsuccessfully buried fear and after we talked at length, she soothed, "It's probably going to turn out to be nothing, Tina girl." But I disagreed.
"No, I have a definite feeling that it's cancer," I told her. But no sooner had I spoken that negative assertion, I was suddenly swept with an oddly comforting premonition. I added, "But I do think it's going to turn out okay in the long run, no matter what happens." I didn’t stop to try and figure out where that thought came from, I just grabbed on and clung gratefully to it.
From that point on, I incorporated as much humor into my missives as possible and thank God, almost everyone I know responded with funny, uplifting messages that kept me laughing. My good friend, Stacy, always broke me up with her modifications on my e-mail greetings:
Dear Lumpy ~ and I don't mean chicken gravy…or Hello Lumpy ~ and I don't mean cream of wheat! One day she startled me with a comment from out of nowhere. “Your boobs,” she said, “Are ungrateful little brats!”
“Huh?”
“Well, think about it,” she explained. “You’ve given them a great home; bought them expensive, comfortable implants to sit on; lacy bras, massaged them with lovely, scented creams…”
Ah—I got where she was going with this. Giggling, I chimed in, “YEAH! What’s up with that? The unappreciative little wretches turned on me and smuggled in an alien!”
Conversations like this kept me laughing and helped keep the fear at bay.
A week before the appointment with my primary care doctor, I got a wonderful surprise; my dear friend Carolyn and her husband Merrill, who was a precious friend in his own right, drove from Las Vegas to help me through whatever traumas I might or might not be in for. Carolyn swooped in, grabbed me in a bear hug and asked, "When is your appointment with Smugg?"
"The twenty-eighth," I said.
"I'm going in with you,” she announced in that no-arguments voice I know and love so well. "We're getting you a referral to a breast surgeon come hell or high water!" Her mother, Madelaine, had recently died of breast cancer. It had been less than a year before, when Carolyn, her family, close friends and I had kept vigil for three days before Madelaine passed away. To Carolyn that memory was still an open wound. She was not about to have the same thing happen to another loved one.
I gratefully accepted.
Following her pronouncement, Marcie, my best friend of thirty-six years, came over and informed us that she, too, would be accompanying us to my appointment. "You let doctors push you around sometimes," she said firmly. "I just want to make sure that you ask the right questions and all." I laughed, thrilled at the picture these two would make, sitting there in the exam room, side by side like guard dogs, just waiting for my doctor to say the wrong thing. Suddenly, the whole episode seemed a lot less daunting.
"Don't attack the poor woman unless I give you the cue!" I said, chuckling.
Carolyn growled, "We'll be the judge of that!"
* * *
Nine thirty a.m. on August twenty-eighth found me waiting in my physician's office, flanked by my two bodyguards, Carolyn and Marcie.
"If she doesn't get her butt in here pretty quick, I'm going out after her," Carolyn fumed, leafing violently through a year-old copy of Golf Digest. "And what's with this cheesy selection of magazines, for god's sakes?"
Marcie looked grim. "Your appointment was for nine, wasn't it? Gee, you'd think she'd get right in here under the circumstances, wouldn't you? And I wonder why the nurse didn't give you a gown to put on? The doctor's certainly going to want to examine you, isn't she?"
I shrugged. "Don't know, but it wouldn't surprise me if she hasn't even looked at the report from the radiologists yet. They get busy and probably read most of that stuff two minutes before they come in."
Carolyn just shook her head and stared at the door, apparently trying to levitate Dr. Smugg into the room.
Twenty minutes later, the doctor finally appeared, relaxed and obviously surprised to see not one, but three women in her exam room. "These are two of my best friends," I said. "They're just here for moral support." My sentries sat up straighter, looking vigilant and wary.
Dr. Smugg smiled a little tightly, nodded, then sat down and opened the file folder she carried with her. She perused it in silence for a few minutes, then looked up and smiled.
"Well, this is the report from the imaging clinic; both of the radiologists who reviewed your ultrasound films agree that this lump you have is probably just a fibrous growth, having to do with your cycle most likely. Their recommendation, and mine, now that I've read the report, is to keep an eye on it. So we'll watch it for three months, and then follow up with another ultrasound around November." She closed the file. "Any questions?"
Carolyn and Marcie both leaned forward, hackles raised, but I motioned them to sit tight.
"Actually, I'd like to see a breast surgeon," I said. "I really want to get this lump out and biopsied."
Dr. Smugg looked surprised. She shook her head, "Oh no, there would be no point in that. The lump is only a half-centimeter; it's too small to even do a biopsy on.”
H-m-m-m, I thought, looks like my guardian angel was right; this is going to be difficult. I took a deep breath and tried again.
"The technician who did my mammogram said I shouldn't wait on this, she's seen a lot of cases turn out badly." Dr. Smugg's jaw tightened. She snapped, "You shouldn't be listening to someone who isn't a doctor!"
I felt like I'd been slapped.
Carolyn looked like she was about to fly across the room to bite Smugg on the leg, and Marcie, I could see, was ready to attack with or without the command.
I tried another tactic. "Look," I said earnestly, "I'm not the kind of person to freak out over every little thing; I'm not a hypochondriac. But I have a gut feeling about this lump. I really want to get it out."
My doctor sat back and folded her arms. "I'm sorry, that's just not how this is done. Two radiologists have reviewed this and--"
I cut in; "Can you guarantee that this isn't cancer?"
"No, of course not, but the protocol here is—“
She really needs to see a breast surgeon," Marcie cut in firmly. Carolyn added, "Now!"
Doctor Smugg narrowed her eyes and said, "Since it appears you're getting better advice from your friends, perhaps you don't need a doctor."
Carolyn, speechless in her anger, turned a bright, dangerous red, while Marcie's beautiful, gentle face got downright scary looking.
As for me, I looked at this superior, arrogant, caregiver, wanting to reach over and slam her face first into the medical license up on the wall and yell, "What about the oath you took, dammit? 'FIRST, DO NO HARM.' Nowhere does it say, 'IF YOUR PATIENTS ARE WORRIED, TOO BAD—YOU KNOW BEST!'" Then I took a deep breath. Making her angry wasn't going to get me what I needed. I tried one more approach.
"Hey," I said quietly, pasting on a smile, “Why don't you just examine me, and then we'll talk about it, okay?" She rolled her eyes but said, “Fine.”
I motioned for my friends to wait outside. They didn't like it but they went. Smugg handed me a gown and walked out the door.
Lying on the table a few minutes later, I waited while Dr. Smugg washed her hands. She strode over, and proceeded with the exam, walking her fingers carefully over the entire surface of my breast, and then sniffed, "I'm not feeling a lump here at all."
I sighed. "That's the wrong breast."
"Oh." She flushed, and then quickly moved to the right one, starting the exam on the outer quadrant, under my arm. I watched her as she worked; her expression decidedly cool.
Then her fingers found the lump. Froze.
Her face underwent an incredible transformation. Eyes wide, mouth agape, she said, "Oh my god! This isn't a half-centimeter. This is at least a centimeter, maybe more!” She raked a hand through her hair. You've got to get this out!"
Well DUH! I thought, Congratulations, your brain has finally decided to join us! But out loud I said simply, "I know."
And then I realized the implications of what she had just said moments before. My lump had grown a half-centimeter in two weeks and four days! If I had waited 3 months…? Sick with dread, I stared down at my breast, picturing the tumor inside, a mutant mushrooming time-bomb ready to explode.
"I'm going to send you to a surgeon over at St. Vincent's. He's very good; I use him a lot. Call today and make the appointment and I'll have the referral over there by the time you go in." Her entire manner had changed. Suddenly there was no time to lose.
Outside, in the waiting room, Marcie and Carolyn sighed in relief when I came out, giving them a fervent, albeit somber, thumbs up.
I called the surgeon’s office as soon as I got home and scheduled an appointment for five days later, Thursday, September second.
This time it was Stacy, that always there for me friend, who called and said, "I'm going in with you!" I gratefully accepted her offer and told Fred he could go on to work with a clear conscience. God only knew how many days he might be missing in the not so distant future.
"If she doesn't get her butt in here pretty quick, I'm going out after her," Carolyn fumed, leafing violently through a year-old copy of Golf Digest. "And what's with this cheesy selection of magazines, for god's sakes?"
Marcie looked grim. "Your appointment was for nine, wasn't it? Gee, you'd think she'd get right in here under the circumstances, wouldn't you? And I wonder why the nurse didn't give you a gown to put on? The doctor's certainly going to want to examine you, isn't she?"
I shrugged. "Don't know, but it wouldn't surprise me if she hasn't even looked at the report from the radiologists yet. They get busy and probably read most of that stuff two minutes before they come in."
Carolyn just shook her head and stared at the door, apparently trying to levitate Dr. Smugg into the room.
Twenty minutes later, the doctor finally appeared, relaxed and obviously surprised to see not one, but three women in her exam room. "These are two of my best friends," I said. "They're just here for moral support." My sentries sat up straighter, looking vigilant and wary.
Dr. Smugg smiled a little tightly, nodded, then sat down and opened the file folder she carried with her. She perused it in silence for a few minutes, then looked up and smiled.
"Well, this is the report from the imaging clinic; both of the radiologists who reviewed your ultrasound films agree that this lump you have is probably just a fibrous growth, having to do with your cycle most likely. Their recommendation, and mine, now that I've read the report, is to keep an eye on it. So we'll watch it for three months, and then follow up with another ultrasound around November." She closed the file. "Any questions?"
Carolyn and Marcie both leaned forward, hackles raised, but I motioned them to sit tight.
"Actually, I'd like to see a breast surgeon," I said. "I really want to get this lump out and biopsied."
Dr. Smugg looked surprised. She shook her head, "Oh no, there would be no point in that. The lump is only a half-centimeter; it's too small to even do a biopsy on.”
H-m-m-m, I thought, looks like my guardian angel was right; this is going to be difficult. I took a deep breath and tried again.
"The technician who did my mammogram said I shouldn't wait on this, she's seen a lot of cases turn out badly." Dr. Smugg's jaw tightened. She snapped, "You shouldn't be listening to someone who isn't a doctor!"
I felt like I'd been slapped.
Carolyn looked like she was about to fly across the room to bite Smugg on the leg, and Marcie, I could see, was ready to attack with or without the command.
I tried another tactic. "Look," I said earnestly, "I'm not the kind of person to freak out over every little thing; I'm not a hypochondriac. But I have a gut feeling about this lump. I really want to get it out."
My doctor sat back and folded her arms. "I'm sorry, that's just not how this is done. Two radiologists have reviewed this and--"
I cut in; "Can you guarantee that this isn't cancer?"
"No, of course not, but the protocol here is—“
She really needs to see a breast surgeon," Marcie cut in firmly. Carolyn added, "Now!"
Doctor Smugg narrowed her eyes and said, "Since it appears you're getting better advice from your friends, perhaps you don't need a doctor."
Carolyn, speechless in her anger, turned a bright, dangerous red, while Marcie's beautiful, gentle face got downright scary looking.
As for me, I looked at this superior, arrogant, caregiver, wanting to reach over and slam her face first into the medical license up on the wall and yell, "What about the oath you took, dammit? 'FIRST, DO NO HARM.' Nowhere does it say, 'IF YOUR PATIENTS ARE WORRIED, TOO BAD—YOU KNOW BEST!'" Then I took a deep breath. Making her angry wasn't going to get me what I needed. I tried one more approach.
"Hey," I said quietly, pasting on a smile, “Why don't you just examine me, and then we'll talk about it, okay?" She rolled her eyes but said, “Fine.”
I motioned for my friends to wait outside. They didn't like it but they went. Smugg handed me a gown and walked out the door.
Lying on the table a few minutes later, I waited while Dr. Smugg washed her hands. She strode over, and proceeded with the exam, walking her fingers carefully over the entire surface of my breast, and then sniffed, "I'm not feeling a lump here at all."
I sighed. "That's the wrong breast."
"Oh." She flushed, and then quickly moved to the right one, starting the exam on the outer quadrant, under my arm. I watched her as she worked; her expression decidedly cool.
Then her fingers found the lump. Froze.
Her face underwent an incredible transformation. Eyes wide, mouth agape, she said, "Oh my god! This isn't a half-centimeter. This is at least a centimeter, maybe more!” She raked a hand through her hair. You've got to get this out!"
Well DUH! I thought, Congratulations, your brain has finally decided to join us! But out loud I said simply, "I know."
And then I realized the implications of what she had just said moments before. My lump had grown a half-centimeter in two weeks and four days! If I had waited 3 months…? Sick with dread, I stared down at my breast, picturing the tumor inside, a mutant mushrooming time-bomb ready to explode.
"I'm going to send you to a surgeon over at St. Vincent's. He's very good; I use him a lot. Call today and make the appointment and I'll have the referral over there by the time you go in." Her entire manner had changed. Suddenly there was no time to lose.
Outside, in the waiting room, Marcie and Carolyn sighed in relief when I came out, giving them a fervent, albeit somber, thumbs up.
I called the surgeon’s office as soon as I got home and scheduled an appointment for five days later, Thursday, September second.
This time it was Stacy, that always there for me friend, who called and said, "I'm going in with you!" I gratefully accepted her offer and told Fred he could go on to work with a clear conscience. God only knew how many days he might be missing in the not so distant future.
* * *
In spite of the “Jaws” theme music running through my head and the dorsal fin circling my stomach, I was in a pretty good mood that afternoon in the surgeon’s office, thanks to Stacy being there, keeping me laughing with her off-the-wall comments.
He kept me waiting for nearly an hour but finally breezed in, smiling, holding out his hand and saying, "Dr. Hugh Hrong.” (This is the name I decided to give him, for reasons which will become clear in a moment) “Sorry to keep you waiting."
I liked his looks and his friendly manner; he was a big teddy-bear-looking kind of guy. Taking his hand, I said, "Call me Lumpy!" Stacy cracked up and Dr. Hrong raised an eyebrow, smiling. "I see," he said. "Well, maybe I'd better take a look." He glanced over at Stacy, raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Oh, it's okay if she stays," I said. "She's pretty-much a sister, and besides, it’s not like my boobs are a phenomenon or anything, she's got an almost identical pair of her own. Only difference is, she grew hers." Stacy and Hrong both laughed and I pulled open the tissue cover-up. "The little bugger's right in here," I said, pointing to the area where the lump was.
The surgeon felt the breast with me sitting up, leaning forward, and then lying down. Finally he smiled and said, "This little bump? This is why you're here? Oh for heaven's sake, the chances of this being cancer are slim to none!"
I blinked, wondering if I'd heard him correctly. Stacy met my eyes from across the room. She looked relieved.
"I've got a gut feeling about this lump, doc," I said quietly. "I think it is cancer," and began to question my first impression of this guy.
Hrong shook his head. "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it."
No, I thought, you probably wouldn't. I wanted to say, “What if this lump were in your…?” Well, no point in going there. I'm no rocket scientist but if there's one thing I've figured out, it's that there are two people in life you don't want to antagonize: your hairdresser and the person who’s going to stand over you in the near future with a scalpel in his hand.
"Nevertheless," I said firmly, "I want it out!"
Shrugging, he said, "Well, I guess I could do a biopsy…"
"No!” I repeated. I want the lump out! A lumpectomy. No matter what it is, it doesn't belong in there. Get it out!"
Hrong, seeing how determined I was, laughed and said, "Okay, fine, I'll do a lumpectomy. When do you want to do it?"
I looked him right in the eye and replied, "What are you doing now?"
He chuckled again, "We'll get you scheduled as soon as possible. Probably early next week. All right?"
I nodded, relieved, and Stacy smiled a "Way to go, Tina!"
I was proud of myself for getting what I had come for, but was absolutely dumbfounded that yet again, it had taken a fight to achieve that end.
My surgery was scheduled for September thirteenth; another week to wait. I was downright unpleasant to live with for those seven days; snapping, growling and pacing the floor, among other interesting exhibitions of my mental state. Questions from my husband or kids like, "What's for dinner?" elicited an immediate response: angry tears. I had a burgeoning alien ready to explode out of my chest and all they were worried about was their dinner? It was an extremely long week. . .for all of us.
But the real fun was just getting started.
He kept me waiting for nearly an hour but finally breezed in, smiling, holding out his hand and saying, "Dr. Hugh Hrong.” (This is the name I decided to give him, for reasons which will become clear in a moment) “Sorry to keep you waiting."
I liked his looks and his friendly manner; he was a big teddy-bear-looking kind of guy. Taking his hand, I said, "Call me Lumpy!" Stacy cracked up and Dr. Hrong raised an eyebrow, smiling. "I see," he said. "Well, maybe I'd better take a look." He glanced over at Stacy, raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Oh, it's okay if she stays," I said. "She's pretty-much a sister, and besides, it’s not like my boobs are a phenomenon or anything, she's got an almost identical pair of her own. Only difference is, she grew hers." Stacy and Hrong both laughed and I pulled open the tissue cover-up. "The little bugger's right in here," I said, pointing to the area where the lump was.
The surgeon felt the breast with me sitting up, leaning forward, and then lying down. Finally he smiled and said, "This little bump? This is why you're here? Oh for heaven's sake, the chances of this being cancer are slim to none!"
I blinked, wondering if I'd heard him correctly. Stacy met my eyes from across the room. She looked relieved.
"I've got a gut feeling about this lump, doc," I said quietly. "I think it is cancer," and began to question my first impression of this guy.
Hrong shook his head. "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it."
No, I thought, you probably wouldn't. I wanted to say, “What if this lump were in your…?” Well, no point in going there. I'm no rocket scientist but if there's one thing I've figured out, it's that there are two people in life you don't want to antagonize: your hairdresser and the person who’s going to stand over you in the near future with a scalpel in his hand.
"Nevertheless," I said firmly, "I want it out!"
Shrugging, he said, "Well, I guess I could do a biopsy…"
"No!” I repeated. I want the lump out! A lumpectomy. No matter what it is, it doesn't belong in there. Get it out!"
Hrong, seeing how determined I was, laughed and said, "Okay, fine, I'll do a lumpectomy. When do you want to do it?"
I looked him right in the eye and replied, "What are you doing now?"
He chuckled again, "We'll get you scheduled as soon as possible. Probably early next week. All right?"
I nodded, relieved, and Stacy smiled a "Way to go, Tina!"
I was proud of myself for getting what I had come for, but was absolutely dumbfounded that yet again, it had taken a fight to achieve that end.
My surgery was scheduled for September thirteenth; another week to wait. I was downright unpleasant to live with for those seven days; snapping, growling and pacing the floor, among other interesting exhibitions of my mental state. Questions from my husband or kids like, "What's for dinner?" elicited an immediate response: angry tears. I had a burgeoning alien ready to explode out of my chest and all they were worried about was their dinner? It was an extremely long week. . .for all of us.
But the real fun was just getting started.
