CHAPTER 2: Core Biopsy and The (first) Waiting

If your mammogram comes back clear, don't get too excited.  It doesn't mean shit.  You still have two lumps of cancer to discover and a long way to get there. 

So during a core biopsy, a doctor, a nurse, and a technician all work together to stick a large needle into your boob and grab some tissue from your lump.  If you’re lucky, you’ll get an ambidextrous technician who can control the ultrasound machine while she lets you squeeze her hand like a baby because needles and doctors and white lab coats make you want to vomit.  After they’ve grabbed four samples with four little gun-shot like sounds, they will tell you you’re done and you can go home.  Just when you think the worst is over, nausea will overcome you and you will threaten to pass out and throw up at the same time.  Your medical team will jump into action, break a bag of dry ice, throw a plastic pan on your lap, and fetch you a ginger ale.  In three minutes, it will all pass and you will feel like an idiot.

The next part of your life could be excruciating while you wait for the results, if you haven’t volunteered to help out at your kids’ school auction fundraiser.  If you HAVE volunteered, then you will be so busy with an entire team of volunteers in your home for a week that you won’t have even a minute to think about whether or not the lump in your breast is cancer.  In fact, when you casually mention it to someone, they will give you every assurance everything is going to be fine even though this person has never been to medical school.  You will, of course, agree with them because what choice do you have.

Then the day will come when you and your doctor play phone tag over your biopsy results.  The practice has recently become a new torture technique at Guantanamo.  You will lunch with a couple of PS3 mom friends and talk about all the work that still has to be done even though the auction was three days ago.  During lunch, everybody will be trying to get in touch with you except your doctor.  You might even think it's a good idea to try your doctor again while crossing a major intersection.  As you nearly get hit by a bus you will wisely hang up.  Your friends, who are still not doctors, will tell you everything is going to be fine.  And you will go pick up your kids from school to take them to the dentist.  The show must go on.

While you are in the waiting room of your kids’ dentist office, you will finally get the call you have been waiting for and you will take it.  Your doctor will tell you that you have cancer at the same time that the dentist comes to get you and the kids.  In that moment, you will feel eternally grateful that your nerdy kids love their dentist and her plastic goody bag crap and you will send them in alone.  You might listen silently for a few minutes while your doctor says over and over how sorry she is and you will wonder why she is on the verge of tears and you are not.  You will ask her what the chances are that these are not your results.  And then you will take out your pen and paper and ask her to tell you what to do next.

If, at that dentist appointment, your six year old learns that she will need braces someday and starts crying about it, you will bravely manage to resist the urge to say “Listen kid, at least you don’t have cancer.  Things could be a lot worse!”  Instead you will just hail a cab like a normal person going about her day, buckle your kids in, and ride home wondering how long you have to live and how you are going to tell your husband.  You probably shouldn’t text him, as tempting as that is, so go ahead and put your phone down.  Now breathe.