So, I had my first mammogram. Something that happens to every woman when she hits the magical age of 40.
It started right before my birthday last year, I started getting reminders in my mailbox that my patient account inbox had messages. I figured, yea, ok. Until one day I had to log in anyway... so I went ahead and looked at them. "Oh, joy of joys." my mind thought.
So I called to get switched to a different doctor... because I have a yearly physical coming up anyway... and I am tired of getting switched to random male doctors. I don't know about you, ladies... but the idea of having random men - whether they are professional or not - looking at my lady parts is just not too appealing. So I got everything situated. Then I pestered the HELL out of them for 6 months to get me an appointment with the doctor they had placed me with. Yea, you read that correctly... 6 months. But that is beside the point, at least I got it scheduled... and could relax.
Then came the day for my mammogram. I figured, well it will be easy peasy. I mean, I've made the right choices and have no family history of breast issues. I've breast fed.. all should be fine.
Enter my own personal version of hell. The call back. (And it's not the happy go lucky type of call back... no. It's a call back for more images.)
You see, they tell you when you get those first images done (4 total) that it is very common to receive a call back for first timers. They don't have a baseline to go by... so don't. freak. out. It's okay.
Don't freak out. Yea... that's a LOT easier said than done.
So, I got the call back.. I called and I scheduled my appointment dutifully (for a day and a half later). Enter overactive imagination. Yea, that voice in my head worked overtime. The voice of reason inside my head kept telling me "everything will be okay. You'll see. You'll be fine. Just have faith." The evil little asshole voice kept saying, "Seriously? You have seen so much in the past year... and you still want to have faith? Why not add a little trust and pixie dust. This isn't Disney, sister!"
Yea, even the snarky voice in my head likes to hit me where it hurts.
I arrived at my appointment. A nervous wreck that hardly slept the night before. Checked in... and waited a few minutes. My name was called and I saw "DIAGNOSTIC" stamped in hot pink across the top of my order. Okay, now whose cruel ass joke was that? Seriously? This is typical, yet you're labeling it diagnostic? That doesn't scream all rainbows and marshmallows to me. It screams "Hey... we found something... and now we're going to let you stew on that a while."
So, I asked the tech. "Did they find something? I thought they just needed more images." Her response, "Let's just get some images and let the doctors look at it. We'll see in a few. Okay."
Well, you're just a happy, go lucky, torture chamber supervisor, aren't you?
So I obeyed. Let her manipulate me and contort me... and then was released after about 15 minutes to stew in the "what if" waters until someone came out to talk to me and see which way we were going to go with this game.
25 minutes. That's right almost 25 minutes I sat. Trying to occupy myself. Praying. Hoping. Praying more. Asking God for forgiveness and praying to Him that he wouldn't make my parents go through another child with cancer. I mean, holy shit, isn't one private hell walk enough? We have endured plenty, let this shit rest already.
Then, they finally called my name. We stepped into a small changing room by the desk... and I was vindicated. Yes. I was told my exam was good. I was free to go home and they would see me in a year.
I don't really think she expected my hug. Or my tears.
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