I was examined. And told, in passing as though it was an accepted fact, that my breasts were small. Small? What? I was also told that there was probably nothing to worry about but should be seen at the breast clinic at St Vincent’s Hospital to be sure. The following day, I received an appointment for a fortnight’s time. I was told I’d have a mammogram, ultrasound, and, if warranted, a biopsy. I parked my worry in their hands. I did not tell my husband. Why worry him until there’s something to worry about?
Worry, though, has a way of sneaking up on you. Upset about something else, I broke down one night. My husband told me I’d ‘be grand’. I wasn’t reassured. Two of my friends wanted to come with me on the day, but I wanted to go alone. The appointment was first thing on a Friday morning. I checked in, filled forms, donned a blue gown, and waited in a room with other women who had given up their Friday mornings for the same reason. I couldn’t escape the thought: Which of us would be walking free and which wouldn’t?
I decided that hair is important. It’s worth the effort. I looked across at the car park where the nurses home used to be. I’d stayed there when training to be a nurse.
Some made coffee. I drank water, thinking ‘a bit late for the health kick’. A few read magazines. Two busied themselves on laptops. Apart from the odd remark about looking gorgeous in our gowns, there was no idle chatter. It was better that way.
I was called for mammography. I won’t lie, it’s squishy, uncomfortable, and, when told on review that they have to take another shot, worrying. Gown back on, I went to wait for the ultrasound. Friends texted looking for news. It was good to have people that cared. In fact, one friend travelled across the city with a chocolate cake for me and we missed each other at the clinic. I will always remember that.
I was called for the ultrasound. The gel and screen reminded me of scans I’d had when pregnant, when the news was good.
A pleasant female doctor talked me through it, saying they’d been concerned about a dense area that had shown up on mammography but that the ultrasound was looking good. I’d have to go back for another mammogram just to be sure. Knowing what was happening brought such relief.
The mammogram was squishier than ever. But they were, ultimately, happy with it. I began to hope. The last hurdle was a physical examination by the consultant, a pleasant man with an air of confidence and efficiency that reassured. He decided to take a biopsy as a precaution. A lovely and equally efficient nurse did this as two female medical students looked on. I didn’t mind. How else can we expect them to learn?
The local anaesthetic was painful. I didn’t feel the biopsy. I would have to return in a week for results. I left Vincent’s convinced of their efficiency, thoroughness, and professionalism. It is an amazing service, whatever the outcome.
A week later, I waited. My name was called. I silently freaked. The doctor told me they had discussed my biopsy that morning. I freaked again. Then he said they had decided it was clear. I’m not sure how many times I thanked him. There followed relieved texts and phone calls and a planned celebration. My husband admitted he’d been worried. That mattered.
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