And so it begins....

I'm assuming that you are reading this post because you're a friend of mine on Facebook, or maybe you got an email from me, or maybe you play World of Warcraft with me. Maybe we've never met in person (I have many online-only friends) or maybe we haven't seen each other in 30 years. Whatever the case, welcome. I'm glad you're here. Feel free to read what you like, but don't feel that you have to leave a comment. And I will write when I feel like it, both emotionally and physically.

So let's get it out there. State it quickly, like tearing off a band-aid. I have breast cancer. Here's how I found out.

I just moved to Texas in February and, feeling very guilty that I hadn't seen a doctor since October 2006, finally made an appointment for a check-up with Dr. Laura Rice. She found a lump in my right breast during the physical exam and sent me for a diagnostic mammogram. So about a week later, I show up for the mammogram, fully expecting that they would also do an ultrasound on my right breast and tell me that it was a cyst. So the tech is doing the squishing-my-breast-until-my-eyes-water thing she has to do; she takes two shots of my right breast, then two of my left. She mumbles something about calcifications in my left breast and starts changing stuff on the mammogram machine. I'm like, "are we done?" Her: "No, I have to get some magnified shots of your left breast; you have calcifications." Me: "What's that?" Her: "They are normal in some women, but we need more views." More breast squishing, and then an ultrasound of my right breast, and guess what?? It IS a cyst. However, and isn't there always a however, I'm told that they need my films from my last mammogram. I make a call to Kyle (my husband) and ask him to please get me the number to my doc in Michigan, whom I call and after being transferred about five times, I finally talk to someone in the bowels of the Henry Ford Medical Center, who tells me I must fax a written request for those films. Get back to work and fax the letter. Now I wait. Nervous. Because I've been told that if my old films show calcifications, we are ALL GOOD -- that will mean they are normal for me. If not, it's biopsy city, baby.

Couple of days later, I get the call. No calcifications on my old films. Shit, shit, shit, shit. I schedule the biopsy. I'm told I will have to lie on my stomach on a table that has a hole in it for my breast to hang through. This sounds like so much fun! They will numb my breast then do a needle biopsy. OK, I can deal.

I show up, sit on the table, the tech asks some questions, then has me lie down as instructed. What I haven't been told is that my breast is not only hanging through this hole, but it has to be under compression the whole time. Argh! And she's having trouble getting me positioned properly so that she can take about 30 mammograms (well, it was probably more like 10), AND has to walk out a couple of time to get help. I'm like, "Hellloooo! Can you at least shut the door? Boob hanging through a hole here!" So basically, I have my boob through this hole, being pulled down and compressed, with my head twisted to the side and my shoulder and back all contorted for about 45 minutes. It got pretty damned uncomfortable. And needle? Forget that shit. It sounded like a gun going off when it went in (they do actually call it a gun) and then drilled into my breast with a sound like the grinding of a really slow dentist's drill. They put a titanium chip in where they took the sample as a marker. I wait for results.

Three days later, the radiologist who did the biopsy gives me the news: intermediate and high-grade ductal carcinoma in situ and invasive ductal carcinoma (grade 1 tumor). He recommends that I contact my primary care physician immediately for a referral to a surgeon. I've never talked to a surgeon before; I've never even had stitches. I call Kyle and tell him the news; I really don't remember his reaction. I think I was crying too hard to hear him.

I call my doctor, sobbing, of course (me, not her). She tells me about this fabulous surgeon who has a practice where everyone specializes in breast cancer. They do nothing but boobs. Period. Cool. So, I call, make an appointment. Go down and tell my boss, Suzanne, who has known about this since the mammogram. We're both kind of sitting there in shock, me wailing about how much I need my mom and sister, and how goddamned angry I am that they aren't around to help me through this. Thank my lucky stars I've got a boss who can sit and listen to me vent.

So that's how I found out. I have breast cancer. Cancer, the fourth astrological sign. I just read that on Wikipedia, where I also learned that "under the tropical zodiac, the Sun enters Cancer on the moment of summer solstice by definition, or roughly on June 22, leaving it around July 22." I think it's funny that Dr. Rice first felt that lump in my righ breast on July 22. Both funny-ha-ha and funny-weird.