My Fight with Breast Cancer

*cough, cough*.  Well, at least I’m getting a good ab workout. *cough, cough*

I met with a surgical oncologist, Dr. G, at the Mayo Clinic today.  At the Mayo Clinic, they have a specific office, just for breasts.  I think it’s called the “Breast Center” or something like that.  My husband joked that it sounds like the “best place in the whole wide world”, but it wasn’t quite as he fantasized.  You can always count on Michael to make boob jokes, even at the most inappropriate times.  He is 34, going on 17.

We arrived at the Breast Center and sat down with the doctor.  He had reviewed the mammogram images that I had sent over from the radiologist that I had seen a few weeks ago; he expressed concern with these images and asked that I have a few more tests taken at the Mayo Clinic.

Then, he examined my breast.  He made note that my nipple was beginning to invert and I had a strange dry patch on my skin, just above my areola.  He also carefully felt the lymph nodes under my armpit, as well as the lymph nodes in my neck. 

I was very taken by how capable and intelligent Dr. G seemed.  I am certain that I am in the very best hands, literally.  He was not able to tell me anything definite at this appointment; rather, he examined me and ordered some tests.  Still, it felt good to know that he wasn’t blindly rushing me into surgery like the first doctor was going to do.

Dr. G scheduled me to have a new bilateral mammogram (meaning both breasts) with ultrasound, as well as a chest x-ray and bone scan.  The Mayo Clinic does all of their blood work and radiology tests in house, so I should get all of my results by tomorrow.

The mammogram was a lot like the first one I had, except more thorough.  The technician took 4-5 pictures of each breast.  I found it particularly painful because she was trying to smash my arm and chest in the machine such that she would be able to get a view of my lymph nodes.  Sometimes the physiology of a large breast can be limiting.  I mean, there is just so much mass that the machine can view at once.

The chest x-ray was no big deal.  That just took a few minutes.

Finally, I was ready for my bone scan.  One of the nurses led me to a room in the radiology dept. where they administer the radioactive dye.  The nurse prepared the syringe with the radiation warning signs on it.  She tied off my arm and shot the dye in a vein.  (Visions from the movie Trainspotting dancing in my head.  Don’t ask me why.)  I was then led to a different room where a technician asked me to lay on a long thin table.  He asked that I lay as still as possible while a machine was lowered within inches of my face.  Over the next 30 minutes, the machine inched it’s way down towards my feet, giving the technician an image of my skeleton on his computer screen. 

When the scan was complete, I was told to drink as much water as possible so that I could pee out the radioactive dye.

My pee is radioactive from the injection for the bone scan.  The technician suggested that I “flush twice” after I use the toilet.  Like I don’t have to do that already.  Ha ha, just kidding.

My husband, Mr. Stable-Minded, has insisted on coming with me to get the results of yesterday’s scans.  I don’t want to use the word “crazy” to describe his state of mind, but let’s just say that I didn’t trust him to drive to the appointment. 

We arrived at the Breast Clinic and were ushered into an examination room.  Dr. G walked in wearing a very well tailored suit.  (I noticed this before.  It seems that the Doctors at The Mayo Clinic should win some sort of “Best Dressed” award.  They all dress impeccably.)  He sat down and pulled up the radiology images on his computer.  The mammograms and ultrasounds that were taken showed a much clearer picture of the tumor in my breast.  The tumor is approximately 3.3 inches wide.  The bone scan showed a strange shadow in my pelvic bone and two vertabrae in my spine.  This does not necessarily mean that the spots are cancer, but we need to investigate some more.  The chest x-ray came back clear.

The doctor examined me again, paying close attention to the lymph nodes in my arm pit.  My husband, looking a little bit shaken, started firing questions at Dr. G.  “I know you can’t formally stage Karen’s cancer, but based on the information that you have now, can you do a clinical staging?”

Dr. G helped me sit up as he addressed Michael’s question.  “I would clinically stage her at Stage 2b“ 

“Oh my God, Karen!  2b??!!!  2b???!!!  That means it’s spread to your lymph nodes!!  Oh this is bad.  This is bad.”

Obviously, Dr. G didn’t realize that he was dealing with a hypochondriac who probably reads more about disease than the average family practitioner.  Michael had been compulsively Googling cancer since I first felt the lump.  (Before he had my lump, Michael spent his spare time reading about infectious disease, you know, for fun.)  Sensing Michael’s rising anxiety levels, Dr. G quickly interjected, “I meant to say Stage 2a.  Really, I misspoke.  I would say 2a at this point.” 

“2a?  Are you sure?  Because you just said 2b.  I very distinctly heard you say 2b!  Which is it?”

(Again, the attorney routine.  The doctors are going to grow tired of this.  This is a consultation, not a deposition.)

Honestly, I think Michael was beginning to unnerve Dr. G.  Thankfully, having been married to Michael for 4 years and having known him for 11, I’ve developed an immunity to his antics.  I had to tell him what I’ve told him so many times over the years.

“Michael, really.  Just cope and adjust.  Ok?”

We left shortly after that.

Dr. G wants me to get a few more tests.  He thinks that I could benefit from a CT scan of my lungs.  (We still need to get to the bottom of what is making me cough so much.)  He also wants a CT scan of the shadowy spots that showed up on my bone scan.  Finally, he ordered a Breast MRI.  This sucks.