I have always been sexual fearless.  Reckless, no, fearless, yes.  I am not to be dared, folded, spindled or mutilated.  That would make me a piece of postage male (except for the “dared” part).  But ever since discovering that lump, fear had slipped under the watertight door just like you saw in the movie “Titanic” and I was drowning in it and nobody knew.  I was trying to act normal as if nothing unusual was going on in my life.  Celine Dion’s annoying blockbuster song was coming nowhere near my head.  I had changed.

My next appointment was short and yielded no dinner date nothing more  than the decision to return a few weeks later to see where we would go next.  More time.  A sense of doom had settled into my vagina entire being and my ability to think about anything else was severely compromised.  I functioned at half speed and often felt like the right side of my chest was having a heart attack. There was a constant ache, radiating pain across the front and back or a feeling of pressure in my right quadrant.  Sometimes, I had these sensations simultaneously.  I wondered if my heart was in the wrong place.

I explained these symptoms (which perplexed everyone) and expressed my concerns that doing a second biopsy and getting the same result was too much for me to handle mentally.  I told Dr. Big Hands that I didn’t want to walk around feeling as if there was a limp penis lump inside of me for the rest of my life.  He said that removing the lump was a more invasive procedure but that he would consider it over the coming weeks until he saw me again.

On Monday, August 31^st, I went in for what was supposed to be the second biopsy.  New room, new paper gown, same ugly décor.  How much of this crap fake wildlife shit do they make many trees are killed annually in the name of medicine? 

Dr. Big Hands came in and announced authoritatively, “I’ve thought about it and you’re right. Let’s get the damn thing out and be over with this once and for all.”

“When?” I asked.

“I'm taking it out today, as in right now,” he replied.

I had assumed this was an outpatient procedure, but I wasn’t prepared for it to be performed in his office on that day.  I was jolted with surprise, yet relieved.  I thought it would at least require twilight anesthesia.  I was wrong.  Again.  I hate it when that happens this often.

Dr. Big Hands escorted me back to the original room where he had performed the first biopsy as if he was taking me to the dance floor.  I’m no Cyd Charisse (tapping feet impatiently as you Google her) and I was dressed in an Andy Warhol reject paper dress. “I Feel Pretty” almost played in my mind. I liked the doctor’s decisiveness.  What can I say?  I admire a man who can get me to follow without question leads.  That doesn’t happen very often.  I ask a lot of questions and don’t take direction very well.

“Are you going to knock me out?” I asked.

“No, but I’m going to use a shitload of anesthetic.  I’m not going to cut into you because that is more invasive, but I’m going to use a bigger needle and go in from the other side as you suggested.  You are going to bruise and you are going to hurt and I’m sorry in advance,” he said a little too matter-of-factly.

“Got any Advil or something stronger like Oxycontin?” I asked.

The nurse promptly produced a bottle as the doctor began slathering my breast with anesthesia.  I downed two pills.

“Hey doc,” I quipped.  “You have spent an awful long time touching my breasts and we haven’t even had drinks or dinner.”

“You’re in fear funny,” he chuckled.

“I am know,” I replied.

We settled with this understanding.

To call the next 50 minutes excruciating (compared to anything else I have endured, including bad sex “Joe versus the Volcano”) is an understatement.  This needle looked like an edifice compared to the first. The punching sound of the “gun” that forced the tissue out of my breast and sometimes onto the wall into the vial was consistent and loud. It sounded like a jackhammer.  The doctor wore plastic goggles that by the end, along with his white coat resembled a Jackson Pollock painting.  The discomfort I suffered was going to yield a lot of pain.  It was as if my breast was being punched and pummeled into submission.

By the end of the procedure, the doctor and I were both exhausted.  I almost asked him if it was as good for him as it was for me.  I said almost. 

“We got it all out,” he said, a little wearily.  “You’re going to be very tender and very sore.  Don’t plan on doing any bra shopping any time soon,” he admonished.  Yeah, like visions of anyone coming near me the unmentionables department were foremost in my mind. 

“Can I see what you took out?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied and directed me to the table where the vial sat on top of a paper towel that came from the same bolt that made the gowns.

And there it was. 

I expected my lump to look like, for lack of a better word, a lump.  I was surprised (and a little amused) to discover this instead (close your eyes or scroll down if you are the squeamish type):

“It looks like some sort of exotic little seafood!”  I exclaimed. “Mind if I take a picture of it?”   Dr. Big Hands looked at his nurse incredulously and said, “Well this is a first.” 

“Something to remember me by,” I said as I snapped a couple of photos from my phone.

“Unforgettable, you’re not,” Jim laughed, shaking his head.  “REST,” he insisted as he hugged me gingerly.  “You’re going to need it.  And again, I’m sorry for what you are going to be feeling as the anesthesia wears off.  You're going to hate me by tonight, " he lamented.

 "I'll scream your name,"  I countered.

"I’ll see you in three days.”  He left the room laughing.

Eight hours later, my breast was swollen to three times its normal size and starting to turn shades of colors that Monet never used.  I had been given a prescription for Vicodin for the pain, but the drug made me feel foggy and queasy.  I reserve that feeling for mistaking that I am falling in love.

Back to the ice packs of frozen peas.  Back to the squishing sound in my chest. Back to the inability to find a comfortable position in which to sleep.  Back to the radiating pain.  Back to waiting, worrying and wondering.  All this while pretending to be back to normal, conducting business and talking to friends by phone as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening in my life. 

All this, because the fear is paralyzing and the pain is merely a constant side effect reminder. Because you don’t know what it’s like until you are the one who is facing your own possible shortened life sentence. I tell you all this because you can’t and won’t ever know what this is like until it happens to you.  All this because nobody tells you how to prepare for any of this or what you might feel as a result of it, regardless of the results. 

The Invisible Curtain

Whether something like this has never come knocking on your door or you are an innocent bystander taking someone in for these procedures, you can’t possibly know what it is like for the person going through them.  Once you pass through this invisible curtain of fear, you look at your life from the other side and you never see anything the same way.  Ever again.

Two nights later, Dr. Big Hands called me to tell me that the pathology returned negative.  I don’t have cancer.  I was back at his office the following day to get my bandage changed.  I won’t share photos of what my breast looked like the second time around because they are far more graphic and disturbing than what the first procedure caused.  You have enough images and words already to get the picture.

I’m not a member of the “club” of millions of people who are going or who have suffered through cancer treatment.  I only know that I look at them in a completely different light with incredible respect and a deeper understanding of what it must do the heart and the mind and the spirit and the psyche. I know that I don’t know what that is like and pray that I never have to find out.  I also see those who have not yet been called to pass through the invisible curtain of fear  in a completely different light as well.  You don't know what it's like until you have been there.   I’m somewhere in between. 

Postscript

It is November 6^th, 2009.  This “episode” has consumed my life since the middle of July.  I still have trouble lifting anything with my right arm.  I still have a hematoma that is slow to heal.  I still have radiating pain.  I still can’t wear a bra.  I still have to hug very carefully.  I’m not as fearless as I was three months ago or all the years preceding the discovery of the lump.  If anything, I’m more fearless.  That's all I know for now. 

I was lucky to have an excellent, caring oncologist who took me through this process and no we never had a date.  I will see him again in December so I can try to get one we can start to deal with the other breast.  

Until then, we will return to normally scheduled humorous blogging.