1 in 8. That’s roughly the number of women who will be diagnosed with invasive breast cancer in their lifetimes. 1 in 8. I am 1.
Let me warn you now – this post will be a little graphic, and will have more information than a lot of you will care to know. I hesitated to share it all, but I think it’s important to the story. Here we go.
2019 was no different for me than previous years – I was busy with my real estate career, and I was deeply in love with my little grandgirl – whom I saw at every opportunity. My husband and I were enjoying our empty nest and spoiling our mongrel dog for the sixth year. Life was good, if hectic. Hectic enough that I was marching toward 2020 without having had my yearly doctor’s visit and mammogram.
Most women have that niggling fear in the back of their minds every year when mammogram time rolls around. We get that little “It’s time for your mammogram” email or card in the mail and we collectively roll our eyes. We don’t have time, but most of us somehow get to the doctor for our screening – and we breathe a sigh of relief when the all clear comes back. Off the hook for another year.
In September of that year, I began having health issues I remember my maternal grandmother having shortly before she was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Though I was a very little girl, I remember the time vividly . My symptoms terrified me, and I tried to convince myself this was No Big Deal. But when I called my doctor’s office and described what was happening, they asked me to come in immediately, and was seen quickly when I arrived. Two diagnostic appointments followed that week, and I was scheduled for a complete hysterectomy the next week. It apparently was a Big Deal. I was assured that my symptoms had caused my condition to be caught before any real damage was done, and I should recover quickly and move on to live my best life in no time. My body handled the surgery like a champ and I did indeed recover quickly. One night in the hospital, clean pathology showing no cancer and I was good to go. Bullet = dodged. Only two follow up appointments stood between me and getting back to “normal”.
The first follow up was routine, but my doctor wanted to see me again in two. Two weeks later, still not quite healed, so I had to come back in a month. A month later – we’re well into November 2019 by now – and I’m in good shape. My doctor stood in the doorway – I still remember everything about that day – almost out the door and then almost as an afterthought, “it looks like you haven’t had your mammogram this year. I’ll have Whitney come get you so you can get that over with”. Whitney was my favorite nurse, but I wanted no part of a mammogram that day. I had to get ready for a closing and I needed to get out of there. “Can I just come back next week?” God knows I had no intention of coming back next week. Just let me out. “You’re here now; let’s get it done”. Dangit. No use arguing – to the mammogram dungeon I went…
