The Biopsy Blues

There are moments in life that no matter how many people are all around you, you are still alone.  I came to that realization as I sat in my oversized hospital gown waiting for the x-ray tech to return from that mysterious place down the long hall where a faceless stranger determines your fate.

“We need to take a few more pictures, Kathryn,” she calls through the drape.
A sinking feeling takes hold in the pit of my stomach. This is my second mammogram and ultrasound in a month.  There’s no lump.  I feel fine.  I’m searching for the humour.  Maybe I moved during the x-ray or a fly was walking across his x-ray reader.

Days pass and I start to relax.  I think they would have called me right away if I had anything serious.  But there it was.  The dreaded message from my GP’s office.
“The doctor wants to see you, Kathryn.  He wants to discuss your mammogram results.”
I hang up the phone.  I try to convince myself that it’s just a routine visit and I won’t have to go for another mammogram until next year.

“We just want to put this issue to rest, Kathryn,” says my GP at his office in London.
Rest???  I know I’m fine.  My mind starts to race with irrational thoughts.  Why do I have to be such a responsible person all the time?  If I’d just ignored my routine checkups and never went for this mammogram I’d be sitting in Starbucks right now having a Latte after a workout at the gym.
“They’ll be calling from St. Joe’s to book a biopsy for you.”
They.  The mysterious they.
Biopsy.  Dense tissue.  Hospital.
“Do I have cancer?”
“Kathryn, don’t panic.  We just want to rule it out.”

So I go home in my surreal state and wait for the call.  Every magazine ad with the pink ribbon jumps off the page.  I take the open box of Kleenex with the picture of the pink ribbon and hide it in the closet.  Everyone knows someone who’s had one.  I think back to when my Grandmother had a mastectomy.  She lived to be 97.

My biopsy by ultrasound is scheduled for this Monday.  Ed wants to plan a holiday for May.  I’m scared.  I think, what if I have breast cancer?  We shouldn’t plan one.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says, his tone matter of fact.
“You don’t know that,” I answer a little too sharply.  “They don’t send perfectly healthy people for biopsies!”

I’m so thankful for the reassurance of my friends and family but in the end, it’s just me and the cold biopsy needle.

Have you been there?  How did you cope?  I’d love to hear from you.