Folks, it’s the return of your favorite publication!

Here we are again blogging for breast cancer, making an informational blog about all the stuff women, and sometimes men, can be faced with.

Let me fill you in about what has been going on over the last few months. I will reconstruct the timeline.

My insurance pays for a breast MRI every three years; it is part of the breast cancer protocol and for years nothing has shown up. We women get mammograms, sonograms and each view they produce can reveal something new. With smartphones and apps we are privy to immediate test results before even speaking to a doctor.

After many normal results we can get cocky. We ask ourselves, oh, come on, why am I here again? Then something weird happens to keep us on our toes.

It began on May 6, an MRI for about forty minutes in a hotter-than-hell tube. I had to wear a mask  which I managed to sneak off my nose. This particular administering crew had poor tube-side manner, sliding me in and out faster than a jet, and triggering vertigo. They made me feel that I had to vacate quickly for the next patient.

Breast lesions are located as on a clock.

From the long report: nothing suspicious BUT, areas at 6:00 and 12:00 might be fibroadenoma. “This is probably a benign finding.”

A visit to the surgeon is customary. The probably benign findings are now in need of exploration. I am on the table and start to cry telling the Universe I don’t have time for this, that I have a husband dying in a nursing home and this has to be a mistake.

More info is needed. My doctor is calm and explains it all.

I have to return for a sonogram-biopsy of the 6:00 area. I make an appointment and am also able to have two large annoying cysts put on the prescription for needle aspirations.

Here I am again, back at the radiology place. Back on a table. Being anesthetized, having a biopsy needle invading that 6:00 space, being told there will be a loud click, not to jump. I am, as always, a trooper. The doctor inserts a metal “clip” which marks the spot so that on a subsequent mammogram they can find the area.

I am watching a needle on the screen poke it’s way into a cyst and deflate it. It reminds me of artificial insemination, that puncture, that invasion. Seeing it on a screen makes me vacate my body. I have been here so many times over the years and here we are again with cysts the size of Lake Tahoe.

On to the mammogram. Yes, after all of that, a mammogram. Clip placement is verified. But wait, he only deflated one of two cysts, the prescription called for two aspirations, back I go to the table again. Why wasn’t this caught before?

The report, very short form: the target at 6:00 is high risk. Intraductal papilloma with associated usual ductal hyperplasia. Tap here to view full resolution images. No thank you.

Return to the surgeon on May 19. Papilloma are in the wart family, they are pre-cancerous and have to come out. Here’s the kicker. Being that there was another lesion at the 12:00 site, that area has to be biopsied under an MRI. My surgeon wants to rule out what the second area is so she doesn’t have to perform surgery twice. OK, that makes sense.

I cry on the table again, thinking, what, are you kidding? I am not sure if I am addressing my ire at the Universe or the doctor. In any case, I have ire. Sue me.

Meanwhile back at the MRI, I am in a different location in the building with a different set of pros who are exceptionally nice. It is June 17. Though the doctor told me I could begin this next round and subsequent presurgery explorations in September, that it was not an emergency) I didn’t want to wait. It is an emergency when you are caregiver for a sick spouse in a nursing home.

I ask the technicians to please not push me in and out too quickly. They get it. The MRI is about thirty minutes, they pull me out of the thankfully cool tube four times to locate the lesion area, anesthetize, take a biopsy, give another look. Implant another marking clip. It’s over. Now it’s mammogram time but I can’t get up. I am walking on deck of the Titanic again. They help me to the mammo room. The clip is verified to be in place.

The report, short version: Atypical ductal hyperplasia bordering on ductal carcinoma in situ, intraductal papilloma…in another report, “borderline malignant.” This looks like a far cry from the phone conversation with the radiologist who said something like, “consider it stage 0.”

Then there was, finally, a conversation with my surgeon after days of phone tag, informing me that she was sending the specimen to another pathologist for a second opinion, as she wasn’t sure about the findings. This area will be a “lumpectomy,” she says.

There you have it. That is just the beginning. The surgery is booked for August 26. But then I find that my son will not be available that week…so now what? it is the first time I am without Robert when I have to have some kind of procedure. I never felt so alone.

If I keep the August 26 appointment, here’s what happens:

📌Within 30 days, I need medical clearance from my physician, blood work and an EKG;
📌Full covid test must be taken 3-5 days prior and results faxed immediately to surgeon;
📌The week of surgery I have to go to hospital to have  SCOUT tracking devices implanted. This obviates the old wire markers that were torturous. The doctor can track a rice-sized radar device to find the specified area.

That’s progress.

I am learning to ask for help and hope to have all appointments covered for transit and moral support.

I am not looking forward to this month. I am in constant fear of the timing and of Robert’s state. But I have to take care of myself. I’ve been here before under much worse circumstances and I’ll get through this again.

I have a son, I have to.

The next post in this series is  here