Queen of Denial Gets Mammogram

By Brit Winfield

There isn't a woman on the planet who looks forward to her mammogram appointment. To be tugged and compressed at such intolerable angles and degrees rates close to having a tooth pulled. So it is easy to ignore that postcard from the doctor that comes in the mail once a year; the reminder to schedule the mammo appointment. But for me, there is also something else playing in my head that makes it easy to let the annual date slip by. It is fear of the unknown, of what may be lurking in the digital images that are due this year. Sometimes it seems I prefer to whistle in the dark and guiltily pretend that I have immunity.

I have a list of excuses as long as my arm that can keep me from staying on track with the mammogram appointments. I argue that I don't have the genetic predisposition or lifestyle habits that contribute to breast cancer and therefore it is alright to let diligence slip. But then I see an old family photo album and am aware that I do indeed have a maternal aunt who had breast cancer. And I am reminded that there is no definitive lifestyle that precludes the disease.

A sense of duty finally overwhelms me and I make the dreaded appointment. On the day of, the clinic informs me that they cannot locate my baseline records from a couple of years before and that they need to collect my info and history all over again. This does not do much to bolster my confidence about the upcoming procedure regardless of it being a state of the art facility.

After filling out reams of forms, I pick up some reading material on the magazine table. It is a photo essay of women who have passed through these very doors and found their lives changed by diagnoses of breast cancer. It is about their struggles and victories, head shavings and uncontrollable nausea, weaknesses and fears and finally, a return to normal life. The book brims with testimonials of these women's gratitude for the treatment and support of this centre and its dedicated staff. I take a quick glance around the room and wonder how many women sitting there this afternoon will have stories like this to tell.

Mammography is a powerful tool in the fight against breast cancer, with detection capabilities of 85 to 90% accuracy. Only 6 to 8% of women who have a screening mammogram have findings that require more detailed scrutiny. On this day, I unexpectedly fall into this small category.

Examining the digital image, the radiologists are certain that teeny spot is something that merits attention. A young resident tells me that from the way the spot appears, there is a 99.9% that this will turn out to be nothing of consequence. When I argue the odds being in favor of that and skipping a biopsy, it is obvious he thinks I am crazy. His argument that the remaining 0.1% possibility of cancer needs to definitively ruled out wins the day and I am left to schedule a biopsy.

I play the "ignore game" as best I can for the next week, but apprehension keeps creeping up and grabbing me by the back of the neck. The day comes and I am being ushered to a dimly lit procedure room. I will sit semi-reclined for the biopsy, surrounded by monitors and ultrasound equipment. On a sterile tray just beyond my reach is an array of surgical instruments, including what I have come to call "the snatcher", the core biopsy needle.

The procedure is to be a minimally invasive breast biopsy. The special core biopsy needle will extract samples about 1/16 of an inch in diameter from the suspicious spot. I will be sent home with a discreet bandaid, perhaps a little soreness and definitely no scarring.

Once I am sufficiently numbed up, the physician begins her probing with the needle. There doesn't seem to be a direct route to the target area she has her eye on and there is a good deal of weaving around inside which surprises me. At last she is pleased with her location and I sense a minor 'grab and tear' as the needle extracts the necessary tissue. I clench my teeth, not from pain but from the strangeness of that tiny numbed tug.

In about thirty minutes, the procedure is all over and I will hear the prognosis from the clinic in a matter of days. I go home with my bandaid on. In a timely fashion, I get good news from the clinic. The resident was right about the 99.9% chance of good health. I sleep well that night.

All it takes is a little distance from the good news and my attention turns to being horrified with the massive discoloration on my breast. The greens and blues of an enormous bruise take their sweet time spreading before dissolving. Nobody warned me about this. A needle in the breast going hither and yon on route to a target will apparently do this. For the next while I do all my dressing in the closet without the light on to prevent myself from seeing the bruise or thinking about it. Doesn't that sound true to form?

But the possibility of breast cancer is not something I can afford to bury my head in the sand about. In the past two years, I have personally known and watched several women take on their own battle with the disease. I have had the privilege of standing by them, organizing casserole brigades, helping their kids with homework and sometimes driving a dead tired mom to chemo appointments. I have been blessed to see none overcome. They are all survivors because they did not hide from the possibilities of truth and I have much to learn from their candor. It is time for me to make another mammogram appointment.

About the Author:

Ms. Winfield is the director of support for the Fight Like A Girl. she is also publishes breast cancer survival stories to encourage other women. You are welcome to visit, use and add to this resource and please consider buying a t-shirt to help find the cure: Breast Cancer T-Shirt.