mammogram…

In addition to dysautonomia awareness, October is also the month for breast cancer awareness.. Recently on the news I heard that preventative screening like mammograms were way down due to the pandemic. People are nervous about visiting imaging centers right now. So I thought that, in honor of breast cancer awareness month, I would share my recent mammogram story.

My boobs are not my best feature.

There’s nothing wrong with them, per se. In fact, they’re quite cute, although they could be bigger. One of the curses of being born with relatively skinny genes, I suppose.

In February, as I was admiring my boobs, I noticed a small lump. I have never had lumps before, but it was large enough that it was very easy to detect. I did some quick research and found out that most breast lumps are caused by cysts or fibroids. The articles I read suggested that cysts and fibroids may coincide with a woman’s cycle, and often disappear within 30 days. I decided to watch it for a month, and if it didn’t go away I would call my doctor.

At the beginning of March I called and made an appointment with my gynecologist for the end of March. Then COVID happened, and my appointment was delayed a month. And then another month. The lump had not decreased in size at all, so when my doctor’s office called to delay the appointment yet again, I told them what was going on and asked if it was okay to wait another month. They insisted I come in the next day.

So, less than twenty-four hours later I was sprawled out naked on the exam table having that endless internal debate of whether I should make eye contact with my doctor as she awkwardly played with my nipples, or if I should just stare straight up at the ceiling. Why do they insist on asking questions during the exam? Because, spoiler alert, I’m absolutely going to forget what kind of law I practice if you have been rubbing my nipples for 20 minutes.

Suddenly I’m starting to understand the husband’s strategy for shutting me up when I have been talking about work for an hour.

So, after an awkward 20 minutes where my nipples and self-confidence were violated, my doctor said she definitely felt the lump and that I needed a mammogram to rule out cancer.

I imagine everyone with a chronic illness has been told at one point or another that “it could be cancer.” If you have followed this blog long enough, you may remember that about 10 years ago a growth was found on my left lung by x-ray. I was sent for a CT scan to confirm the growth, and told that it could be cancer. You can see the growth on the scan below:

I was 29 and scared shitless. I had just started experiencing POTS symptoms, but had not yet received a diagnosis. I was convinced cancer explained everything. After all, why else would a 29 year old suddenly have serious fatigue, lightheadedness, pain, confusion, and a growth on her lung? After months of worrying and numerous scans, my pulmonologist concluded that it’s just a noncancerous growth high up on my left lung. It grows so slowly that I only have to have it checked out every 5 years or more, and may never have to have it removed. I used to feel pain in the area of the growth, which my doctor said could result from it putting pressure on the surrounding tissue, but I don’t even get the pain anymore. I ended up being terrified for nothing, which is perhaps the best way to be terrified.

So when my doctor ordered the mammogram to rule out breast cancer, I wasn’t worried at all. I have been through that shit and learned that, statistically, cancer is highly unlikely. The majority of lumps end up being cysts. There’s no history of breast cancer (or really cancer of any kind) in my family. According to my genetics, I will die from a brain disease, heart disease, or even depression, but not cancer. There’s a kind of clarity you gain from having lost your shit in similar situations and having it all turn out okay.

But I also wanted to move on to the next step in figuring out how to eliminate the lump, because lumpy breasts aren’t sexy, and my boobs really want to bring sexy back.

My doctor scheduled me for a mammogram and ultrasound in mid June. I was more nervous about visiting a medical center during a pandemic and the boob-smooshing than I was the actual lump. But when I arrived, I was very pleased to see that the medical center had taken all COVID-related precautions.

First, I was taken back to a secluded room and told to undress and put on the paper gown. Naturally, I was required to wear a mask the whole time which, if I’m being honest, was the ONLY thing other than a paper gown I was wearing for a good portion of the exam. The doctor started up the boob-smooshing thing a majig (it’s actual scientific name), and wiped it down with a cleaning solution. If I had bigger boobs, I imagine I’d get to stand with my face a good 6-10 inches away from the machine. But to get my boobs on the plate that squishes them, I had to essentially make out with the machine. The mammogram tech fluffed them a little, squeezed them, made origami characters out of them, then smooshed my boobs on the plate and initiated the scans.

The worst part, other than the hugging the boob smasher while topless, was having to stand for 15 minutes without being able to move while they took the mammogram. As I have mentioned many times before, POTS makes it difficult for me to stand up if I’m not moving. The blood pools in my legs and doesn’t circulate to my heart and brain like it should, so I get dizzy and feel faint. I realize this sounds silly, but it is easier for me to walk a mile than stand still for 10 minutes. So, POTS friends, prepare to stand.

Next, I was sent to a sterile room with a bed. The ultrasound tech pulled out a tube of gel, which I assumed was hand sanitizer, and asked if she could squirt a little in my hand. Ten minutes later I’m lying naked on the bed, except for my mask of course, trying to discreetly wipe what turned out to be ultrasound goo from my hands. I was too embarrassed to admit I thought it was sanitizer to the tech, because somehow in my mind that was worse than being the weirdo who likes to moisturize with ultrasound jelly.

Using the ultrasound machine, the tech measured the size of the lump diagonally, upside down, and inside out. It looked like a tiny eye socket in my boob, and for the next few minutes while the tech did her thing, I made up stories in my head about all the things that little eye had seen: mostly the inside of bras, and that made me sad and thought I should take her out more and show her the world.

I enjoy ultrasounds because I like to see my insides on screen, as a bit of a memento mori. It reminds me of my mortality, of the limits and liabilities of my body, and that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am in fact human. The tech confirmed the placement and size of the mass – about 2cm, or the size of a penny, and said the ultrasound report would be sent to my doctor, who would give me a call with the results. I was finally told to get dressed, and thank god, because nothing looks more ridiculous than a naked 40 year old woman wearing nothing but a mask and ultrasound goo.

I actually completely forgot about the scan until a week later when my doctor emailed me the results. Noncancerous cysts. Apparently there are more in there than I was able to feel. It’s kind of sweet when you think about it – all these little boob eye sockets quietly watching over my every move. Plotting.

My husband doesn’t like that joke.

According to Dr. Google, cysts are common, especially in women in their 40s and are often caused by a hormonal imbalance, which I have been dealing with since I stopped birth control years ago.

So, the good news is, I just have lumpy boobs. Good thing they’re not my best feature.

If you’re due for a routine or preventative appointment, and you feel comfortable going, I felt perfectly safe throughout my appointment, mammogram, and ultrasound. Everyone was wearing a mask and gloves. Every surface I ever touched was wiped down before and after I touched it, right in front of my eyes. Sometimes the only way to detect any hidden concerns is routine and regular screenings. If possible, please don’t put yours off.

“You can be gorgeous at thirty, charming at forty, and irresistible for the rest of your life.” – Coco Chanel

Smell ya later.
– Linds