“Dear Ms. Brettschneider: Your mammogram performed on February 10, 2009 is considered incomplete. In order to complete the evaluation, we need additional imaging studies.”
I read those lines and didn’t think twice about it. I had had mammograms dutifully over the years and there had never been an issue. My mother’s sister was a breast cancer survivor, but I had been told that didn’t count as a risk factor.
I assured my husband Mark there was nothing to worry about. “Breast tissue changes as you get older, and the technician told me that the new digital technology results in a lot more call-backs,” I said. I wasn’t in the least bit concerned.
At the follow-up appointment the technician said, “We’re going to take a couple of pictures of your left breast. The radiologist saw something in the first read that she wants to take a closer look at. These images will be much more magnified.”
“Well, I’m glad my breasts will finally look bigger to someone,” I retorted, “because I’m not willing to get implants! Why do people do that?” She laughed.
After the new images were taken, the radiologist met me in a private room to explain that I had three calcification clusters in my left breast. I still wasn’t worried. I was just shy of my 45th birthday, and figured that “calcifications” at this stage of my life weren’t uncommon. It slowly dawned on me, though, that she was talking about various biopsy methods.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “Can we back up a little? How normal is this? Should I be worried?”
“I’m concerned about one of the clusters,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “It looks different from the others. The calcifications are different sizes and shapes. I’m not worried about the other two, but I want to test them while we’re at it.”
I was shocked. It hadn’t occurred to me to bring Mark to this appointment, I was so sure that it wouldn’t turn up anything. My head was spinning. My body went numb. Through the haze I heard her say that if a malignancy did turn up, it would be very early stage.
She recommended a stereotactic core needle biopsy, which removes tissue with a hollow needle. She warned, though, that my small breast size made this method more difficult. The fall-back would be a surgical biopsy, which I assumed would be a straightforward, anesthetized procedure.
I was holding back tears and the doctor rightly sized me up as someone who didn’t want to be hugged by a stranger. I’m not even good at being hugged by family members. I’m not good at being comforted in general. I am always the person who comforts, not the person on the receiving end. She asked if there was anything she could do. I shook my head, she handed me a box of Kleenex and said, “Take as much time as you need.”
I called my husband from the parking lot and gave him the news, still choking back tears. He immediately cleared his schedule to take me to the biopsy appointment, scheduled, appropriately enough, on Friday, March 13th.
I was late meeting a girlfriend for lunch after the longer-than-anticipated appointment. “I have a really good excuse,” I told her. We then drank two glasses of wine each to help me prepare for the journey (this was before I was given the uplifting news that alcohol is linked to breast cancer risk).
Have you or a loved one had to endure a mammogram (or other medical test) call-back? (Trick question, as I know several of you have.) I’d love to hear about your experience in the comments.
Katherine says
I got “the call” in the parking lot of my son’s college as I arrived to pick him up at the end of the spring term. Like you, I got those vaguely reassuring words “caught early.” But that does nothing to alleviate the raw, cold fear in the pit of your stomach when you realize “I have cancer.” It is one of the most pivotal moments in life.
Martha says
Yes, Katherine, I experienced the same raw, cold fear in the pit of my stomach. I wonder what the actual mechanism is that translates our emotions into physical reactions like that? No doubt a lingering trigger from the days we were chased down by wild animals as dinner fodder. I’m so grateful your treatment was successful!
Lajla Hanes says
First reaction…………..The Hospice Social Worker has cancer….that’s me….I am a patient….I’ll fight…and the people I love will be with me. Martha, you were one of the first to visit me and join my army. That was 25 years ago. We won!
Lajla
Martha says
And you are still going strong, Lajla. Such an inspiration! It must have been so much harder 25 years ago on a number of levels. But here you are, always ready with your support. Love you!
Carol Huntley Cohen says
Dearest Martha –
Before the church got ahold of the number 13, it was, in the histories and the
stories, a very sacred number. It meant a “shift”.
(Arthur and the 12 knights, Jesus and the 12 disciples, etc.)
And……I’m not being flip here. I think it’s interesting….
Always, love from me.
Carol
Martha says
More food for thought, Carol. Thank you!
Marcia says
I believe that the number 13 is supposed to be lucky according to Jewish tradition – as in bar/bat mitzvahs. I do not know the background, but hope it meant something for you, Martha!
Martha says
Hmmm — good luck or bad luck? It would have been good luck if the biopsy had come back negative, but it wasn’t wholly bad luck, either. A lot of good has come out of the experience for me, but I certainly wouldn’t wish it on anybody!
Marcia says
For each of us who goes for a mammogram regularly, there is a sort of split feeling about it: routine versus dread-held-at-bay. Sometimes, to me, it feels like rolling the dice: will this be a “good day” or a terrible one? Having not (yet?!?!) received the dreaded assessment, I can only imagine … But what we all hope, it that if we find we need to face the prospect of cancer, treatment and whatever else may come, we hope to have the stamina, courage, and sense-of-humor that you have modeled for us, Martha – while not at all denying all that was behind them, in the way of fear and dread. Though you are not one to lean into a hug, have to send you a cyber-hug anyway!!!
Martha says
Thanks, Marcia. The irony was, I was never worried about mammograms! I had them but never ever ever thought I’d get the news I did. Part of that stupid recommendation to raise the age of the recommended first mammogram and, I believe, reduce the frequency of them (which was then rescinded, with very little press coverage) was partly to reduce women’s stress levels surrounding mammograms and the prospect of false positives. I am the poster child for getting your mammograms starting at 40 (or earlier if you have a family history). If we hadn’t had the record of my first one, the results of the 44-year-old mammogram may not have been as much of a concern. Though we caught it very early (again, thank you mammogram), the pathology reports showed the cancer was aggressive and rapidly growing. Thanks, I’ll take the stress of a mammogram. Cyber-hug back to you, Marcia!