QUICK UPDATE for those
following regularly: My scan yesterday was a complete train wreck but all is
clear!
If you were reading this gratitude series like a chapter
book, the above update should have been marked with a spoiler alert but, since
this is a real story and people worry, it had to be done.
Yesterday when went in for what will probably be my final
mammogram, the pleasant woman behind the registration desk asked, “And how are
you this morning?”
“Nervous as a cat,” I thought trying to yank my Kaiser card
out of my wallet. But, being in complete control of my emotions, I said, “I’m
nervous as a cat!”
I waited just a few minutes before being called back to the
business end of the department.
“Okay, we are going to get better results this time.” I said
with false bravado as we walked.
Not callously but with an air of that’s-not-my-job she said,
“I just do bone density testing” and showed me to my dressing room.
Gown on, sitting out in the behind-the-scenes-hallway, I
began chatting with the other waiting woman. When a tech brought blankets to us
I joked, “Oooh! Today must be spa day.”
Evidently the way I said ‘spa’ or the nervous titter that
followed was a flashing wow-she’s-terrified giveaway to another older woman with
a lilting South American accent. Because the woman asked me if I was nervous
and I confirmed that I was just trying to pretend I was in the spa. She sweetly
reminded me there was nothing to worry about and ‘the squish’ it wasn’t that
painful.
I smiled and thought, “If you only knew.” But the words that
came out of my mouth were, “I know it will be fine.”
When the tech brought me in to the machine room, she gave my paperwork a glance and said, “So… it looks as if you’ve had a procedure on your left breast?”
“Um, I suppose you could say that,” pulling back the fold of
my gown. “I don’t have a left breast anymore.”
“Oh,” she said. “I need to speak with the doctor. I’ll be
right back.”
As she left I thought it both mildly amusing and slightly
disturbing that I freaked out the tech but when she re-entered the room seven
minutes later, everything changed.
“Well, the good news is, you don’t need a mammogram,” she
said as if presenting me with a gift.
“On my right breast I do,” I said.
“The doctor says you don’t,” she replied.
“My oncologist says I do,” I countered. Anxiety immediately refocused
itself into agitation. “And if you need ME to talk to the doctor I’m happy to.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
A few minutes later another tech walked back into the room.
She happened to be the same tech from six months ago and I was so relieved they
sent me a good one.
“Hi, I remember you!” I said before I launched into the
craziness of the last few minutes and how pleased I was that she was going to
do my test. She looked at me blankly, walked across the room and grabbed
a piece of paper. As she faced me, the door opened and my tech walked in.
“Oh,” I said. “I thought she was going to do my mammogram.”
“No, I’m just here to pick up this paper,” she said as she
waltzed out the door.
My heart sank much more than my face flushed.
The day’s original tech explained the doctor wanted to talk
with me so I followed her, still gowned, back down the hall to the dark room. The
radiologist sat in a dark room surrounded by monitors. I remembered the last
time I was in a similar room six months prior. It hadn’t gone so well. The tech
stayed at the slightly ajar door but outside of the room. To me it seemed as if
she was hiding behind the door.
“Hi, I’m Dr. F,” she said as I sat down. “You don’t need a
mammogram today.”
“My oncologist says I do,” I spat out almost reflexively.
As the doctor explained her expertise and she regaled me
with details of ‘proper screening protocol’ she admitted she hadn’t read my
history.
“So do you have a family history of breast cancer?” she
asked.
“My mother has breast cancer.”
“Well, have you had genetic testing?” she asked.
“Yes, I am BRCA negative,” I explained.
“Well we only recommend six-month screening with BRCA
positive patients.”
I reiterated the screening protocol my oncologist had set up
and Dr. F said with a flat frankness, “Well I disagree with that and if someone
needs a six-month screen, it is our office
that sets it up.”
“My oncologist put in the order and your office DID set it
up,” I explained a little louder than was probably necessary in that tiny
little room.
The conversation lasted less than 10 minutes but I was
exhausted and unnerved.
“So,” I began as I put my hand up to Dr. F as a signal for
her to stop what I felt was a diatribe. “I am the patient and my doctors
disagree. What should *I* do?”
“I’ve already emailed Dr. J,” she began.
I stopped her again. “I understand that. But I’m sitting
here in YOUR office. You’re doing what YOU
need to do. What do *I* need to do now? Do I just wait? Do I call Dr. J? Should
I just go home? What do *I* do?"
I tried hard to keep the tears from spilling over but my voice cracked anyway.
“You should contact your doctor,” she advised.
Feeling more defeated than agitated, I explained that my
best unsolicited patient advice was for her office and oncology to communicate better.
And then I walked out of her office, put my clothes on, pushed the brimming
tears aside and began to wander my way downstairs.
At the stairwell, I paused.
Instead I ascended the stairs and decided to walk to
oncology instead.
“Hi, Dr. J put in the order for a mammogram and the radiologist
just refused to do it. So I’m not sure what to do?” I announced by way of
introduction to the woman at oncology reception.
“Well THAT is NOT okay,” she said. “Let’s get you some
answers.”
Suddenly everything changed. A green paper was completed;
Dr. J’s medical assistant came out; I was offered coffee & juice; given a couple
of hugs and walked around the catacombs of the infusion center. The warm reception
was like a great big hug and I burst into tears.
Within 15 minutes I was told Dr. J was in contact with Dr. F
and that she would be right out to talk with me.
And she was.
She came out, gave me a hug, apologized and then explained
the exchange. She confirmed that she heard the same speech I did but believed
that, in my case, the protocol we agreed upon was best but that Dr. F was in “violent
disagreement”.
Then she asked me how *I* felt about things.
“I’m sure Dr. F is very good at her job. But I TRUST you
and, honestly, I just like you better,” I responded so grateful to have been
asked how I felt.
Dr. J laughed graciously and said, “Well let me make a call
and see about getting you that mammogram.”
She returned before I could pick up another “O” Magazine.
“They are ready for you now,” she said. “I’m so sorry about
all of this.”
Another hug and I headed back downstairs only slightly
concerned my pain-in-the-arse return to Women’s Imaging would mean a more
painful squeeze but pleased that I would be finally getting the screen that reassured
me everything is A-okay before I go into another surgery.
The mammogram was just that. A mammogram. If you’ve never
had one there are plenty of people who can share their experiences. I am not a great one to ask since I've only
had two and, compared to the last one, mine was ridiculously fast and
one-sided!
As I mentioned above, everything came back clear. Like many
other women, my tissue is dense and the first mammogram never saw the IDC but
we saw nothing alarming on this one so I’ll take it.
If you’ve made it this far, you might be wondering what in
the heck I’m grateful for out of all this. Or you’ve assumed I’m grateful for a
clean scan.
While I am indeed very pleased with the clean scan, I am
actually profoundly grateful for a voice.
I have one. And I can use it.
It felt very small sitting in the radiologist’s office but I
used it anyway to say, “This is not okay,” until it slowly became louder.
NOTE: If I were following @Kind_Spring's 21-Days of Gratitude, I would be finished with this exercise but I have so much more to be grateful for!
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