WARNING:  Graphic images at end.

Look down at your chest.  Imagine a 13-inch needle probing your right breast that had been inserted at what would be the three o’clock position if someone were facing you.  In other words, the needle went into my breast through the inside of my chest wall, as opposed to someone else’s the outside.  Now, think about lying in bed for the next 48 hours, being told later that evening there was both good and bad news and that you were basically still single no further along in your quest to determine if you had cancer than you were 13 days earlier when you first discovered the lump. Insert Al Stewart’s “Time Passages” here.  I’ll wait as you Google Al Stewart.   I don’t mind.  I’ve gotten o’really good at waiting.

Ironically, bags of frozen Wasabi peas became my best friends as I quietly nursed myself and tried not to think if I would ever see Fiji about the next day’s appointment and where this seemingly endless journey was taking me.  I’m kind of anal about the knowing what’s going to happen next scenario being informed.  Especially when it comes to my sex life mortality.  Time is a motherfucker cruel jokester (like my brother Floyd, but not as clever) in these situations.  You realize that you never have enough of it when you think you need it and then you are given way too much of it while you live inside your head wait for results. 

Then, there was this awful squishing sound in my chest wall that kept  reminding me that I was human me in severe pain and time couldn’t move fast enough.  It felt and sounded like there was a washing machine hard at work splish splashing in my breast.  Makes you want to take me out to dinner, doesn't it?

Nobody in town knew what I was going through.  Nobody.  Since finding the lump, I had made myself invisible; because of my otherwise normal hectic schedule, nobody suspected that something might be amiss.  I was furious that I had no control over this thing it couldn’t resolve itself and I just wanted to move on to the next round of life.  I wanted to get there now tomorrow.

My appointment with Dr. “Big Hands” Jim was late Thursday afternoon.  I hadn’t been out at all once since the procedure on Monday.  I drove through town like a thief.  The seat belt could not go across my chest because of the pain.  Four months later, it still can’t.  It’s a not so subtle reminder every time I drive day. 

As I sat in the waiting room, I coined a term and decided to call myself a  “phaser”.  Someone in some phase of treatment trying to get an answer.  I was no longer a pile of forms and a mammogram with a name attached to it waiting to learn something.  It was already established that something was there.  We just didn’t know what we were going to do about that "something" because we still didn't know what that thing was.  I could separate the phasers from the non-phasers.  Since there were only two of us in the waiting room and the other woman was filling out forms, it wasn’t hard to do.  Call me a fucking genius Pythagoras.

I was taken into a different room (I was going to see every room in this joint, wasn’t I?  Well, yes, I learned later, I was) and told to put on the famous no size fits anyone paper gown. 

A few minutes later, Jim entered what I wish would have been a part of my anatomy and greeted me with a gentle, yet genuine hug, mindful not to press against my injured breast.  Did he hug everyone, I wondered?  I hoped so, even though I deluded myself into thinking I was someone special.  I couldn’t fathom the idea that one litigious- happy woman might react to this kind of compassion with a lawsuit differently. 

“I spoke with three pathologists from the lab and they insist it’s not cancer,” Jim began. “But you and I both know that something is there and I’ll be damned if I am going to allow either of us to be sitting here six months or two years from now wondering why we didn’t make sure. I can’t live with myself without knowing and I don’t think you can either.”

I officially had a crush on liked and respected this guy.

Then, with the flair of Errol Flynn (you can Google him too but this time I’m not waiting around ‘cuz I have a meeting coming up), Big Hands tore open my gown and with an earnest, heartfelt voice said, “I knew it was going to be tough on you, but even I didn’t imagine this much bruising.  You are going to be in a lot of pain for at least another week.  I’m so sorry.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I said with my best southern accent (that I don't own).

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” he quipped.

“You should see me when I’m not facing the possibility of cancer (O')really on,” I replied. 

He took off the big ass bandage and replaced it with smaller one.  And then he pulled up closely to me and put his hands on my knees and looked deeply in my eyes.  For a fraction of a second, I thought he might want to kiss me ask me out on a date, but I knew better.

“You’re not going to like hearing this, but we are going to have to wait for this thing to heal and do another ultrasound before we decide how to proceed, but we are going in there again no matter what.”

"Do you think it might be wise to go at it from the other side so you can get to the tissue from a different angle?" I asked.

"That's not a bad idea, but that will require a larger needle and may cause even worse bruising than you have now," he cautioned.

“Can't you just take this fucker out” was screaming through my brain “So how long are we talking about?” I asked.

“It will probably be at least a few weeks.  I’d like to see you in two to see how you are healing,” he said.

“No chance you want to take me out before?” I flirted.

“Let’s put this behind us, and we’ll see,” he flirted back, with his hands still on my knees.

He hugged me again as I exited the office near the waiting room, in full view of other people.  Which meant that maybe I wasn’t that special after all.  But he did flirt.  At least there was something to look forward to.

I’m not trying to milk it for that it’s worth drag this out, but the unfortunate truth is that two weeks later, I was still squishing and swollen.  Nobody could hug me (except the doctor, because he knew how) and trust me, I’m a serious hugger.  So that really kind of sucked.  It still does.

It would be five weeks to the day of my first biopsy when I went in for the once and for all decisive procedure that would (or would not) change my life forever.  But mine had already been changed.  Until this episode, I had only been a witness to or a sightseer of what the dreaded "c" word  does to the human spirit.  Now, I was a participant and I saw things very differently.  I still do.

So let’s do some math here.  Lump discovered Friday, July 17^th, 2009.  Initial biopsy performed on Monday July 27^th.  Appointments in between (including getting full blood work to rule out anything else).  Second procedure performed on Monday August 31^st.  We’ll talk about that next time we gather round the campfire.  Nearly seven weeks of worrying and waiting and not telling anyone makes you want to talk when it’s all over.  These are things that nobody tells you.