Cancer Journey

Mary Margaret Lambert

A lot has happened since my first posting about my breast cancer journey.  My emotions have been on a never ending, somewhat scary emotional roller coaster during these past nerve wracking days and nights.  Much like pregnancy mood swings, I vacillate between tears one minute and anger the next.  (My husband prefers the tears).

            My appointment with the breast surgeon went as well as it could.  I was impressed with her demeanor, professionalism, and the team of assistants who will guide me along this uncharted trek.  With a friend to support and accompany me, we digested a lot of information about the pathology of the tumor.  With a multitude of reading materials, I was grateful for her input that she acquired from having a double mastectomy and her years of experience working in a medical lab.  She was able to translate much of the medical terminology for me into plain English.  She was the lighthouse during this particular storm that kept me from crashing into the shoreline and sinking. The good news is that the tumor is still small and graded as stage I.  The bad news is I must undergo surgery to banish it from my body.  In order to determine how extensive my surgery will be, I learned I must undergo a breast MRI for further imaging of both breasts.

https://www.cancer.org/cancer/breast-cancer/screening-tests-and-early-detection/experimental-breast-imaging.html

            Once that was scheduled, I felt confident about the procedure because I have done two previous MRI’s with no adverse reactions.  Not a pleasant experience, by any stretch of the imagination, I nonetheless endured them. The day of the procedure, I drove myself to the radiology location, despite offers to accompany me.  No big deal, I insisted, telling all that I would be fine.  I was not at all happy to see the large tube I would lie in, and when I learned that I would be in a face down position, boobs hanging into cameras, arms above me in a diver’s pose for eighteen minutes, I convinced myself that I still could conquer it.  Once I was properly in place, I closed my eyes and began to silently recite my rosary.  As I began the third Sorrowful mystery, I experienced profuse sweating, heart racing, shallow breathing, and a hot flash right from hell’s gates.  “You can do this.  Just relax and breath,” one part of my mind kept saying, but a dark, sinister portion of that same brain shouted, “get out of this thing before you die”.  With my hand firmly gripping the panic button, I fought the impulse to push it for a couple of agonizing minutes before I succumbed to the evil force of resignation.

            When the technician finally got me out, after what seemed like an eternity, I was drenched in perspiration and felt like I was going to faint.  She fanned me, got me some cold water to drink and eventually helped me to sit up.  The port was still in place in my arm and she asked if I wanted to resume the test.  I tearfully responded in disbelief there was no way I was going to go back into that instrument of torture.  On shaky legs, I made my way to the ladies’ room, tossed the pink hospital gown into the hamper, and hastily dressed before retreating to the safety of my car.  Once there, I sobbed loudly and long until I could compose myself well enough to drive home. I feel certain that onlookers assumed I was having an emotional crisis and they were correct.

            That entire evening and much of the following day, I utilized several boxes of tissues and chastised myself for not being able to complete the MRI.  I found it impossible to believe that with all the modern advanced technology out there in the world of medicine, this form of torturous diagnostic imaging still exists.  If they can capture facial expressions of a baby still in the womb without traumatizing the mother, why can’t they see tumors without an MRI? Several phone calls from empathetic friends who experienced the same reaction helped to convince me I was not alone in my episode.  Lots of helpful advice assured me that, with the help of prescribed medication, I could “get back up on that horse and ride to victory.”  A call to the surgeon’s office has set the wheels in motion to try once again to slay this MRI beast, but this time I will utilize the Joyful mysteries on a purple plastic rosary to hopefully insure a more positive outcome.