Post #12 - Just Like a Woman
136 slats in the vent above my head. 25 ceiling tiles. Muzak playing softly in the background. A warm room that smells all too familiar. Me, the patient on the table awaiting the results of my mammogram and ultrasound. I resorted to counting everything within my view, as I had already gone through every meditative breathing exercise I know, while trying to calm myself.
This feeling is all too familiar, but my perspective on this is all new. On this cold and grey February day, I am alone in this room, with only my thoughts, awaiting test results. Being in this room is the first time, since my post-op from surgery at Sloan Kettering, that I am back in any doctors office getting routine tests and a proactive check-up done.
Allow me to back this up for a moment. I have looked at preventative care and tests as such a privilege and part of self-care. I felt so responsible and carefree staying on top of all my routine doctor appointments - except mammograms and ultrasounds. They have always made me feel a bit uneasy, as these tests only look for one thing - abnormalities - aka: cancer. It’s never for a better outcome than when you first walked in. But, in being responsible to myself (and my loved ones) I always make sure to get them. We also have a history of breast cancer in my family, and I am someone who has always wanted to know if something is wrong. That way - you can fight any battle - as long as you know there’s a battle to be fought. Whether or not you know if something is amiss, or if there is a “thing” - it’s not going to just go away. I always want to know and then figure out what to do next.
I came to the appointment alone, as covid protocols still won’t allow people to wait with you. When I checked-in, the receptionist asked if any other doctors should be made aware of my results at the end of the day. I mentioned Dr. S at Sloan Kettering, as I am sure he would want to know of any abnormalities - if any were found. I sat down in the reception area and had my choice of chairs as I was the only one in there. I started to read my book, and I knew I was nervous. Not because there was a menagerie of butterflies in my stomach; but, the fact that I was reading the same line in my book over and over again was a definite nervous response for me. “Marissa Gaster?” I was called back and asked to change into the navy blue gown that was put aside in the changing room for me. I flashed back to my first day at Sloan Kettering…all the smiles and knowing nods along the way. I went into the room where the large machine was in front of me. After 3 images were taken on each side, and awkward banter was happening between the wonderful tech and myself, I was asked to wait in a small area where the ultrasound technician would come and get me when she was ready. Back to the same 3 lines in my book.
It was now my turn - again. I was escorted in and was told to lay down on the table. I was awaiting the warm, gooey gel to be oozed onto me. In trying to make small talk, during another very awkward procedure, we got onto the topic of my summer. I told the woman all about my surgeries and how I ended up with my scar. It was barely visible to me, but, apparently, it was peaking out the top of my jeans. Within a moment, the technician, who had been some what “procedural” with me, took on the same tone I have heard since my diagnosis - there was pity and sympathy in her voice. All of a sudden she was a much softer and kinder person to me.
As we wrapped up, she handed me a towel to wipe the “goo” off of me and told me to wait, as the radiologist would be in to see me with my results. What was probably 3 minutes felt like 3 weeks. This is where we started this blog entry. Counting. Counting and math have always calmed me in a very odd way. Numbers make sense; there is always an answer; things always add up (no pun intended). In my “creative” world, everything I make and do is subjective and according to someone else’s taste. I guess that is why I count as part of my meditations and somehow it soothes me. Yes, I’m a huge nerd.
The radiologist came in and introduced herself. As nice as she was, I couldn’t remember her name if I was offered good money to do so. I saw kind eyes and heard a pleasant voice. She didn’t want to keep me waiting any longer, so she delivered the news: “You’re all clear.” After I took a breath, I asked about the cyst that they have been keeping an eye on for 3 years. The doctor said it was the exact same size, and they will continue to monitor it. After she reassured me about the tests done that day, she asked if she could speak to me about what happened to me, as the technician tried to clue her in. I gave her the short version of my long story. And, with that, she told me that she had studied under Dr. S when she first started doing rounds and wanted to work within the oncology field. We made some references and had a nice conversation about it all. What a small, little world we live in.
And, as quickly as I came in, I left with some ease. As soon as I got to the car, I FaceTimed Rich who, I knew, was awaiting my call and results at home. I saw his face relax a bit when I told him the good news, and then he wished me a safe trip home and told me he’d be waiting for me. I called my mom next as I knew she had concerns, not only for my physical results, but in how I felt about having to face the unknown - again.
I’m hopeful that, as time passes, going for routine visits won’t feel so scary, or like the absolute worst results will happen. I also wish for a peaceful and quiet mind for myself the nights before these tests. I’ve always been very much a realist - neither an optimist or pessimist - I try and keep everything very realistic and I try to see all sides of every situation. I try to live in the very grey areas of life - not too black and not too white. I think my illness changed some of that for me - I hope not forever. I really miss that part of me. Being conscious of it, I feel may be the first step in getting some of the “old me” back. Only time will tell. I want to see (and feel) like that woman again.