Two weeks ago, my world was violently shoved off its axis. The week before I’d done a routine breast ultrasound and was now receiving the results: over a dozen cysts in varying sizes sprinkled throughout my breast tissue, some of them quite concerning. Further imaging needed ASAP. When I got the news, I was sitting on a blanket in my front yard, my kids beside me building Lego castles. I felt myself floating away from the scene like a balloon on a string, unable to stay in the moment and hold the two realities at once: me, healthy and alive beside my two laughing children; an alternate version of me, with something potentially cancerous ravaging me from the inside out. As with any medical procedure, there were numerous hoops to jump through in order to receive additional imaging, and in the week that I waited, I found myself ping-ponging through various emotional states. In some moments, distracted and dissociated, the balloon on a string drifting high into the sky. In others, contemplative and grounded, researching the statistics and facing the reality of what a cancer diagnosis could mean for me and my family. In my worst moments, I was certain of my impending death, skipping right through the other stages to an imminent end.
Fast forward to the day of my imaging. I’m alone in the waiting room, fidgeting in a hard plastic chair, my stomach in knots. The thin gown is too big and I keep adjusting the gaps in the front, as if modesty is in order when the whole reason I’m here is to have my breasts scrutinized by various strangers. There’s a pink breast cancer ribbon on the wall, the words “You are stronger than you think” penned beneath it. I don’t want to be strong, I think. I just want to be OK. A cheery technician walks me to my mammogram, explaining the procedure as her clogs squeak across the polished floor. They told me not to wear deodorant today because it interferes with the reading; my underarms are a war-zone as she squashes my breasts into the machine.
When the procedure is done, she walks me back to the waiting area. “There are a lot of cysts,” she says in a tone that doesn’t match the words she’s saying. “I’ll have the doctor look them over and decide if you need an ultrasound too.” I try to read the book I brought, but the words blur on the page and I can’t hear myself think over the buzzing in my ears. I haven’t had a panic attack in years, but I can tell I’m close. They decide I need the ultrasound; there are two fairly large cysts that need to be examined more closely.
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