A Big Bangin' Machine

The next steps were to have an MRI; possibly another biopsy; meet with a surgical team and move forward from there. The MRI was a third level of checking to make sure that there were no cancers anywhere that the previous tests couldn’t see. MRIs done with a contrast can see blood flow and cancer needs blood, so if there is an area of increased blood flow, there is likely a cancer there as well. Though it was no joke, I walked in for an MRI on April 1. I didn’t need anyone with me for this as well, though several people offered again. I think this was the third time I had an MRI, so it wasn’t a big deal for me. I don’t mind enclosed spaces. In fact, my mom had looked on the Mayo Clinic website to research breast MRIs and attempted to describe the procedure to me. Needless to say there was going to be a bit of gravity involved to try to get a fuller picture of both breasts.

I was in the waiting room for all imagining patients, checking my phone for Facebook updates and any PTSA emails that come through randomly that need my attention. And I saw a mom carrying a little girl, maybe 5 or 6 years old, who was half asleep on her shoulder. The mom was whispering to her that she would be ok, that they just had to take a few pictures of her heart. The child didn’t appear to be well. It was a jolt to my brain. #perspective. I already have lived a great 40 years. This child has barley lived 6 and she is having some pretty big health issues, if someone is studying her heart. And while I don’t know the actual reason this child was there, it brought me back down to earth. I am healthy and will live. And my kids are healthy, and while they have had their share of visits to doctors for a myriad of things, they are strong and healthy. I am still lucky.

The MRI technician walked me through the procedure. I would be lying face down in the machine, with my breasts hanging down into clear plastic boxes and squished a bit so that they would stay still for the 18 minute scan. “Also,” she said, “try not to breathe deeply.”

She asked me what type of music I wanted to listen to. I replied, “does it matter? Can I even hear it?” and she replied negatively. I told her to put on whatever the millennials like these days. Blank stare.

The MRI lasted exactly 18 minutes while I listened (but couldn’t hear) “We are Young” and several other songs by the band Fun. After, I asked who would be calling me with results, and she replied that whoever ordered the test would be calling me. And she added “if they forget to call, go ahead and give them a call in four days.” FORGET? What?

While I was waiting my results of the MRI, I felt a lump develop in my right boob where the biopsy was done. I was completely convinced that I had developed breast cancer. This is 100% not possible and my brain understood that. But my emotions convinced my brain that I wasn’t going to live to see my kids get through elementary school. Fear and the unknown are powerful things. I finally called – after so many friends told me to just call and demand (yes, demand) my MRI results and ask about this lump. So I called and left a message with my treatment team. A day later, after 4pm on a Friday, the ARNP called me and explained my MRI results and then answered a barrage of questions that had been looming right under the surface of my brain. My MRI showed nothing in my left breast, which is great news, and something positive to focus on. The MRI confirmed that the only questionable spots on my right breast were the three that the mammogram and ultrasound found, which is also good news. The bad news is that the area in question is about 7cm long, which is quite a bit of breast tissue to take out, so they were preparing me for the distinct possibility of a mastectomy because just taking the pieces out wouldn’t leave enough healthy breast tissue that would look good.

I started processing – I’m not sure I ever stopped processing- and came up with something that would help me: If I must have a mastectomy, how can I feel better about what I am doing? I thought and thought and thought and came up with something: If I have to cut my boob off, I am going to get something out of it: I am going to have a game where my friends pay me $10 and guess how much my boob weighs. Closest person gets to go to dinner with me and I can donate the money I make to the cause of making DCIS more of a known condition. Some of my friends thought it was great – others thought it was crass. Either way, it’s how I feel I can do the most good.