I had two assignments that day - get my blood drawn for pre-surgery tests and get the redo biopsy of my right breast. I've had blood drawn before and I've even donated blood at a blood-drive. Needles didn't bother me much so I was able to quickly, and rather painlessly, cross off my first assignment of the day. With my cotton ball and bandage around the prick wound on my arm, I made my way from the lab back to the radiology department. I was becoming something of a regular there.
As the ultrasound-guided core-needle biopsy was unsuccessful in collecting an accurate sampling of my mass (we all knew it was a tumor, but for now, we'll call it a mass ... wait, is there really a difference?), I was going to have the stereotatic biopsy this time on the right breast. Once again, I was face down on the exam table, this time with my right breast hanging down through the hole. And, once again, there was Tammie, hand on my shoulder, consoling the patient with physical touch as she, and everyone in the department, had been trained. Also there to assist Dr. M with the pending procedure was Joanie. She talked with me during the procedure, asking questions about my tattoos, family and anything else that would help me focus less on the needle in my breast.
The mass, as seen on both the mammogram and ultrasound, was located in the upper, outside quadrant of my breast (near my armpit). It was easy to locate on the prior exams, so there was some concern when, after repeatedly repositioning me on the table, moving my arm and shoulder into incredibly awkward positions, they still couldn't find just the right place to push in the needle. (Wait, maybe my positive thinking had actually worked, I thought to myself. I pretended it wasn't there and they suddenly couldn't find it. I was powerful!)
We took a break. Time to reposition me, again. Tammie went out into the lobby to let Craig know what was delaying this procedure.
"We're having trouble finding it," she told him.
"Huh? You're having trouble finding what? Her breast?" he questioned, ever the smart-ass.
"No! No, we're having trouble finding the mass so we can get the needle in just the right spot," she quickly replied.
They eventually got me in a position that allowed them to get a decent amount of tissue to biopsy. Dr. M took more than he really needed, but he wanted to ensure they got an accurate sampling of my mass and thus avoid having to biopsy that breast a third time. Curiosity got the best of me and I asked to see the tissue samples in the plastic container. The nurse showed me a round container with several departments, each containing several tissue samples. I called them worms. It looked like a hundred little worms in a dish! It was cool, in a twisted, sick, way. The nurse was going to personally deliver the dish to the lab and as she walked out the door, I asked her for a favor.
"Hey, can you show that guy in lobby, Craig, the dish? Show him how weird and cool it is!"
She obliged. Craig has yet to forgive me for that.
I headed out the door, steri-strip on my wound and little, pink ice-pack in place. Despite having been through this twice before, something wasn't feeling right. I was in much more pain that I had been with either of the first two biopsies. I attributed it to the fact that my breast was still bruised from the original invasion two weeks before. As I gently eased into the passenger side of the car, I cried. (Note this as occasion one of maybe two where I cried during this entire cancer journey.)
"I'm tired of being poked and prodded! It hurts! I don't want to do this!" I yelled at Craig between sobs. Through my puffy and watering eyes, I noticed a tear trickle down my driver's cheek. "I just want to go home and crawl into bed!"
I managed to get into bed, but with pretty intense pain. (That was when I first got a glimpse of just how involved your chest muscles are in every single movement you make. Getting out of the car hurt. Walking up stairs hurt. Pulling down the covers hurt. All this was just from a biopsy and here I was signing up to get both my breasts cut into just a few days down the road. What was I thinking?!) As I pulled the covers up over my legs, I saw that blood had soaked through my white, zip-up hooded sweatshirt. At first I thought the steri-strips had fallen off, but no, they still adhered to my skin. Only, they were now soaked with blood.
Tammie, the mammography supervisor who had been with me during every procedure thus far, had compassionately given me her cell phone number and said to call or text her if I had any questions. I have always hated asking for help, but I was desperate. I was in pain. There were tears! Tears, for me, mean one of the following: 1) it (my body) hurts 2) my heart hurts or 3) my sisters are making me laugh too hard and I can barely breathe. My tears that night were clearly a result of number one - it hurt.
Fortunately, I had my cell phone in the pocket of my sweatshirt. I texted Tammie.
Me: Hi. It's Cherí. Is it normal for the wound to continue to bleeding this long after the biopsy? Why does this time hurt so much more than the others? Sorry to bother you so late! (It was maybe 8-9pm. If you know me at all, you recognize that is late for me.)
Tammie: No bother at all. Have you taken a pain pill and tried icing it?
Me: Yes, I've done both. Hasn't helped. (A tear dropped on the face of my cell phone.)
Tammie: Take another pill in a while and text me after a bit and let me know if it helps at all.
Two pain pills and I was out. The next morning, with dried tears gluing my eye-lashes together, I saw that Tammie had sent me a text after I had fallen asleep.
Tammie: Come by the office right before 8am and text me when you get here. We'll bring you in through the back and get the nurse to redress it for you and check it out.
She saw us walking up the entryway to the clinic the next morning, 7:59am sharp. I was still hurting and was really tired of being in this pain. They ushered me through to an exam room and put me on the examination table. Craig stood way in the back corner, behind Tammie, the nurse, and Dr. M. As my protector, I sensed he didn't want to let me out of his sight while I was in such pain. Yet, he was way back in the corner ... either chivalrously protecting my sense of modesty or in an attempt to avoid seeing me cringe and cry.
The nurse pulled off the steri-strip bandage and I instantly felt something of relief wash over my body.
"Wow, yeah, looks like you are allergic to steri-strips! It's been, what, 12-18 hours, and you are already blistering!" the nurse told me. Seriously? An allergic reaction to band-aids? That's what this pain was all about? That settles it for me. Childbirth is not ever going to happen for me.
They cleaned the wound, applied new gauze and used paper tape to adhere it to my skin. A note, in bold permanent marker and highlighted, was added to my patient folder - ALLERGIC TO STERI-STRIPS! PAPER TAPE OK.
I walked out of the clinic feeling exponentially better. I hardly had any pain. But I still got a tiny, pink ice-pack, just in case. I was feeling so much better I would have settled for a purple one!
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