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What
a Waste of a Beautiful Pair of Breasts PAGE
2 It was one of those days where I left the house before 10:00 that morning and didn't come back until after 11:00 that night. In between a walk-through and a three-hour home inspection -- I sell real estate too -- and my acting class that night, I dragged my ass through the Valley, to pick up my previous mammos in Burbank, and schlep them to Woodland Hills. After the re-shoot, I was told to wait, that the radiologist wanted to talk to me. Is this going to take long? Because I'm getting together with my scene partner before class to run lines. We're putting up our scene tonight. It's from In the Boom Boom Room. I'm playing this MC at a strip joint. I bought fishnets for it and everything. The radiologist was a somber, quiet man, who pointed out my calcifications and said he didn't like them. I'd have to have a biopsy. He said if I were his family, he'd make me do it ASAP. But you don't understand, I sold my house a few weeks ago and my girlfriend Andy and I are doing all this work to our new place. There are all these workmen around. Oh, and we're going to Kauai in a few weeks. It's our 10-year anniversary. Can I do the biopsy after? It's just not a good time. He'd do it now if he were me. Fuck him. What the fuck did he know? I called my mom on my way to class and broke the bad news. I told her about the calcifications and she looked them up online as I drove. Are they the macro or the micro? I'm not sure -- I think micro. Oh, 'cause the macro are better. They're usually benign. You can get them from a sports injury, say a soccer ball to the chest. Surely that's what happened. A soccer ball pummeled my breasts some time in my teens and this fucked up hypochondriac of a radiologist is just being over-precautionary. I know better than him. Oh, and my mom said that biopsies are nothing. They're painless. She's had two, which both turned out fine. And she's bad with pain. So I made an appointment. Our new couch from Crate and Barrel was being delivered the morning of my biopsy. Horrible timing. I considered rescheduling. But no, it was the Friday before Labor Day weekend and we wanted to know that these calcifications were nothing before we went off to Kauai. Our friend Rob came over to man the door and sign off on Grace, our 68-inch, clean-lined espresso sofa/loveseat hybrid. Off my girlfriend and I went to the Providence Breast Center so I could get poked and prodded. The biopsy hurt like shit. I'm not going to lie. I was face down on some table with my left breast hanging through a hole, clamped tight in a metal vice, while this needle connected to a mechanical arm proceeded to ram the shit of me. In and out, up and down, all over the joint, making sure to get good samples. These worm-like collections of tissue. Squiggly little pieces of boob. Barb, the very nice nurse, stroked my hair while I squeezed a spongy ball. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. When we got home, Grace hadn't arrived. Alas, Rob couch sat for naught. She was delivered soon after and we enjoyed her all weekend, trying not to think about boobs. I was instructed to sleep in a sports bra and leave the biopsy bandage on while I showered. I looked at the red quarter-inch incision and wondered how long it would take to fade or if it would mar my breast forever. The problem with having a biopsy done the Friday before a holiday weekend is that you have an extra day not to know. An extra day to wonder. I don't recommend it. Not that it mattered that much. 'Cause we knew it was going to be fine. We were thinking positive. We knew I didn't have breast cancer. That would be way too fucked up. I called the nice nurse Barb Tuesday morning. Or did she call me? That part's a blur. On Friday she explained that she normally didn't give results but would in my case, so as not to keep me waiting. The second I heard her voice Tuesday morning I knew it was bad. She had that low, slow, I'm about to tell you something horrible cadence. I wrote down everything she said. DCIS, micro invasion, estrogen positive, herteuneu negative. I was probably looking at a lumpectomy with a likely side of radiation and possibly chemo. What?? Are you sure? No. She wasn't. That's why she normally didn't deliver this kind of news. After it was all said and done, I still had to ask her if this meant I had breast cancer. Yes. You have breast cancer. I was
in our back house that we use as an office. I stumbled into the
front house in a daze. Andy was futzing through the entertainment
center looking for CDs to burn. She spends way too much time on
iTunes if you ask me. She didn't realize I'd been talking to Barb.
I have breast cancer, I told her. Whhhhaaatttt?? Not as shrill or
dramatic as my mom's voice when I first came out to her. More heartfelt.
And full of disbelief. Her eyes were instantly full. We hugged and
she begged me not to leave her. Then she looked me hard in the eye
and told me she was going to take real good care of me. Then we
called my mom.
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The
next week the techie called me. Her voice was shaky, but I think
it may've always been shaky. She said I needed to come back in for
spot magnifications. How often does this happen, I asked? I know
I read the laminated thing but I'm one of those people who need
to hear things several times. Once is just not enough. Three to
five people a week, she told me. Okay, that doesn't sound too bad.
But I'd have to go way out to their west Valley location. They were
too booked at this one. I hemmed and hawed 'cause I don't like to
be put out. I'd try to make it work. But it better be during non-traffic
hours. And it better be quick. I'm a busy lady.
