5. The One Where ...

Before I knew it, I was back on the exam room table, right arm stretched above my head, staring at the ultrasound machine screen. The image I saw resembled what you'd see on a television screen with no reception - black, grey, and white scrambled images that made up no recognizable image. (As I write this, I'm recalling a Friends' episode ... "The One Where Rachel Tells Ross". Rachel is on the table with Ross next to her as they both stare in awe at the ultrasound screen. Ross sees it. Rachel says she sees it. She doesn't. Ross points it out to her. Rachel says that yes, now she sees it. Nope, not really, she doesn't see it. Tears are shed. She can't see her peanut shaped fetus on the screen and, therefore, feels she will be a bad mother. Well, I can't see my mass on the damn machine ... does that mean I'm going to be a bad breast cancer patient?) 

The radiologist located the mass quite easily and I nodded and told him, "Oh totally, I see it, wow, shocking!" (Truth? I didn't see it, but I wasn't feeling the need to have this procedure delayed as he tried to help me see it.) He marked the location on my right breast with a permanent marker so he'd be able to biopsy the right spot. 

"Now, we're going to numb the area a bit. You'll feel a small prick as we give you the local anesthetic, but after that you shouldn't feel a thing." I'm sorry ... you are going to what? And the needle was shot into my breast. I twitched. He was right, I couldn't feel what he was doing next, but I still had my eyes open. Mistake, Sherry, big mistake. I saw "the needle" with what looked like a fish hook on the end.

In a core needle biopsy, the automated mechanism is activated, moving the needle forward and filling the needle trough, or shallow receptacle, with 'cores' of breast tissue. The outer sheath instantly moves forward to cut the tissue and keep it in the trough. This process is repeated three to six times. A small marker may be placed at the site so that it can be located in the future if necessary. Once the biopsy is complete, pressure will be applied to stop any bleeding and the opening in the skin is covered with a dressing. No sutures are needed. (Borrowed that paragraph from www.radiologyinfo.org)

The tissues sample were finally safe in their little container and were labeled to be sent out. The nurse stood right over me, tried to engage me in small talk while she held firm pressure on my battle wound for ten minutes. Seriously, what kind of things are appropriate to discuss when a stranger is standing there pushing with all her might on your recently shot-up breast?) Finally, she put some sort of band-aid over it. I was given the tiniest of tiny ice packs to put inside my bra and help keep the area from swelling and to help ease the pain. (The ice pack was pink, at least.) It remained in position until I got in the car. It wasn't cold anymore. Useless. Cute, but useless.

Biopsy number one - complete. Results would be available to me on Monday when I was scheduled to meet again with the radiologist. I began to see a pattern of action, wait, action, wait.

Time from scheduling appointment with Vivian to the time I saw her = one hour, fifty nine minutes.   

Time from seeing Vivian to mammogram = 48 hours.  

Time from mammogram to biopsy = 3 hours.

Time from biopsy to results = 96 hours (give or take) 

I wouldn't categorize myself as ever having been very patient. Granted, I am much more so now as an adult then I ever was a child (natural progression I suppose). As I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, I sensed this whole experience was leading me into a lesson on patience. (Little did I know then, but these few-hour and couple-day waits were nothing compared to the tests of my patience I'd have to endure in the weeks and months to come.)

For now, Monday would come around eventually. But first, I had to make a few calls. Speed dial, favorites list ... where to start?