I only had one doctor's appointment this week, but it was a doozy.
After I saw the gynecologist last week, I scheduled a mammogram for yesterday. I
had only had one before, I think, and it was so long ago that I couldn't remember
when it was, or where I had it. When I called the schedule the new one, they asked
me if I could bring the films from the first one, but I told them I couldn't
remember where I had it done, and they said that was all right, but if there was
any question, they'd really like to have them to compare.
I just sort of thought, well, what's the difference, everything's fine, it
won't matter, I wouldn't even try to find them--in the first place, I just
felt strange asking people to look for the records when I didn't even know
where I'd had it done, and I guess I also felt badly that it had been so long
ago that I couldn't remember.
Anyway, I showed up at the radiologist's office on Tuesday morning, and after
checking in (and being asked again whether I was bringing old records and
having to tell the tale all over again), I was shown into a little dressing
room and told to take everything off above the waist, and put on a little
gown they had left for me.
I don't know whether there was something wrong with the gown, or whether I
just couldn't figure it out--it had little strings, but they didn't seem to
meet up so that I could tie any of them together, and I ended up just sort
of wrapping it around myself and holding it closed.
I sat down in a chair in the little waiting room and read an old copy of
People. The only time I get to read that is in doctors' office waiting
rooms and beauty salons and, occasionally, airplanes. I was reading all
about Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman's problems when they called me in.
I had remembered that a mammogram was uncomfortable, but I hadn't remembered
how really painful it was. The technician told me to tell her when the
pain was unbearable, and then she would stop, but every time I felt I wasn't
waiting long enough, that I was telling her to stop too soon. But I figured
she told me to tell her--if it wasn't tight enough, she could just tell me
to grin and bear it, and she did, a couple of times.
One time (I don't remember how many films she took, I think there were six
in the first batch) either I breathed or something else happened, but the
x-ray showed movement and she had to do it again. And toward the end--I
guess it was the next-to-the-last one, the machine didn't take the frame,
it overheated or something, and she had to let it sit for a few minutes.
I didn't realize that they actually had a radiologist read them right then,
but when she was finished, she asked me to wait back in the waiting room,
and not get dressed, but to wait until she came for me. So I sat down and
read a little more of People, and then she came and got me and asked me to
come back in the room.
She had one of the x-rays pinned to the lightbox on the wall, and she showed
it to me, pointing to a place that the radiologist had circled in pen. She
said, "He wants to see if we can get a better picture of this area," and
she took two more views of my left breast, in different positions, different
methods of squashing.
She said, "Okay, I'll go show him these and be right back, just wait for a
few minutes." So I went back out into the waiting room, but this time I
just sat there; I couldn't summon the necessary attention span even for
People.
She called me in again, and she said that the radiologist saw something on
the films that he termed "suspicious," and really needed the old films to
compare to the new ones. I'm sure the blood just drained out of my face,
but I was trying to keep a straight face, and I had to bite my lip to keep
from bursting into tears. I told the nurse that I would call around and
find them, that it was somewhere here in town, and there weren't that many
places it could be. She asked couldn't I check with my doctor, and I said
I'd had three different doctors, that I could remember, but yes, I'd check
with them.
I had to sign some kind of consent form--I have no idea what it was, now,
but obviously something standard, probably about them releasing information
to my doctor, or swearing that I'd pay if my insurance didn't, or something,
and I just kept nodding to her and saying, okay, okay, and didn't start
crying until I was behind the curtain in the little dressing room by
myself.
I walked out the front door, and when I hit the parking lot, I experienced
for the first time that I can recall what people mean when they say their
knees buckled under them. I didn't fall, but I think if I had let go, I
could have. I reached the car, got in, and sat there and cried a little
more, and tried to decide what to do. I was supposed to call Bob and tell
him how it went, and if he hadn't already done it, I was supposed to go
let his parents' dog out.
I knew I couldn't call him without crying, though, and I thought maybe I'd
just go home for a few minutes, and if he was already gone, I'd figure
he was letting the dog out, and I'd wait a little while before I
called him.
But as I turned into our street, he was driving out the other way. He
stopped, and I rolled down my window, and he said, "Everything okay?" and
I said yes, and that I'd go let Logan out, and call him later, and waved,
and turned around and drove back out of the neighborhood, and then my phone rang. It was him,
of course, and I answered, and he said, "Are you really okay?" and
I couldn't answer him for crying.
He said, "Wait right there, I'm coming back," and I managed to croak out,
no, it's okay, I'm okay, I'll call you later, but he told me to stay where
I was, that he was turning around. He did a u-turn in the street, and I
did the same, and he parked at the side of the road and I pulled in behind
him, and he ran up to the car and leaned in, and I told him the whole
thing.
He reassured me, and reassured me, and told me everything would be okay,
that it would probably turn out to be nothing, but even if it isn't,
we'll get through it together, and it will be fine. I know it will. I
mean, really, I do, surely it's nothing, but what if it isn't . . .
I went on over to his parents' house and let the dog out, and found the
phone book, and started calling doctors and hospitals. The doctor I'd
seen for the longest time had, apparently, destroyed my records. At least,
I didn't show up in their system, and it was assumed that it was because
I hadn't been to see her for a long time. I asked, "If I had been
seeing here and she sent me for a mammogram, where would she have sent
me?" and the receptionist or nurse or whoever it was I was talking to was
completely unhelpful, and wouldn't even give me a suggestion, which started
me crying again, but I pulled myself together and called the doctor I
saw after her.
This time I could only talk to the nurse's voice mail, so I left a message
saying what I needed, then I took a shot and called one of the big hospitals
here, where I thought I might have had it done, and bingo, that was it.
Unfortunately, it was ten years ago--I couldn't believe it had been that
long--and while they showed my name in their records, they didn't have
immediate access to the x-rays. They would have to order them from storage,
and it could take as long as a week to get them.
I asked them to put as much of a rush on it as possible, and they said they
would--this person was very sympathetic when I told her what was going on,
and apologized that I was going to have to wait--and once they have them,
they'll call me and I'll go get them and deliver them personally to the
radiologist's office, and then I guess we wait and see what happens.
I couldn't call my mother right away, I knew I'd start crying if I did, so
I took myself out to breakfast and sat and read for awhile, then came home
and did some work and tried not to think about it too much. Then my mother
called me for some other reason, and then asked whether I'd had
my appointment yet, and I had to tell her. I did pretty well at
faking dispassion, I think--at least I don't think I made her worry about
me too much--she hasn't called today--and she said she had had some problems
in the past, mentioning one particular time when she had to have a
mammogram every six months for a couple of years while they tried to figure
out what something was, and eventually decided it was a calcium deposit.
So . . . Bob saw his parents last night when he picked them up from the
airport, and he told his mother (he had asked me if it was okay for him
to do that, and I told him yes), and she didn't act terribly concerned
about it, said something like, these things happen all the time, so I
guess if both my mother and my mother-in-law think it's fairly common,
then maybe it really is.
I think it was just mostly the shock. Even though I always think that
if I do get bad news, I'll always react with strength, I'm always
surprised by it, since I never really expect it. At least, as Bob
says, they didn't come running out and say, "Oh, my God, we've got to
get you into the hospital as soon as possible!" They just said they
saw something they wanted to check out further, and it will almost
certainly turn out to be nothing major. If there is still concern,
then I guess I'll probably have to have more tests, maybe more
mammograms, maybe a sonogram. That's as far as I'm willing to take
that at present.
But no matter what happens, I'll be all right.
