17. How did you know? continued

A week later, on the 6th April, the first envelope with what would become a familiar postmark arrived, informing me an appointment had been made for a mammogram at 11 am the following Monday, 11th April.

I went to work as usual, and apart from keeping an eye on the time, did not feel anxious. Mammograms, I’ve found, although not exactly afternoon tea at the Ritz, are uncomfortable rather than painful, possibly because the staff are so kind and expert. This placing of the breast to be squashed between two metal plates sounds worse than it is, although it’s likely others might disagree.

The appointments were running late, and I was concerned to be away from work as I’d only expected it to take an hour or so. Besides, I was hungry. I felt edgy and uncomfortable sitting with other women in the light blue gowns as we awaited our results. The conversation revolved around the main reason we were there: breast cancer. Stories of friends who’d been diagnosed, their treatment, survival and recovery seemed to usher in the dark angel of reality. Despite the mood being upbeat, one woman was filled with dread and despair. The dark angel sitting beside her mimicked every sigh, every frown and at every intake of breath, sucked away optimism.

Eventually I was called in to see the consultant. The mammogram revealed calcifications, and although these had been present at a routine mammogram two years earlier, the x-ray suggested either these were clearer in this particular x-ray, a better picture, as it were, or, the calcifications were larger and more prevalent. As sometimes calcifications can hide cancerous cells, a biopsy was advised and arranged for the following Thursday, 14th April.

I phoned to reassure my husband that all was well, still confident that the biopsy would be a precaution and this was a ‘playing safe’ approach.

Thursday 14th April came. Lunch, and the jolly wit and banter of colleagues in our favourite local restaurant to say goodbye to a good friend who was leaving, completely took my mind off the forthcoming biopsy later that afternoon. If one is to face the firing squad, one should always do so on a good meal.

The biopsy was a little frightening. It followed the same procedure as the mammogram (stop reading now if you are squeamish) but a needle sort of “drills down” deep into the tissue to draw up cells. Once again, this was bearable because of the kindness, expertise and honesty of the staff. When I was told the ‘drilling’ would last for 45 seconds, it did. 45 seconds isn’t really that long, even in this situation.

If you Google search ‘biopsy’, some sources say you can go straight back to work afterwards, but I couldn’t have done. I went to bed when I got home and slept out the evening and night. We all deal with things differently: in all of these surgical procedures I distance my mind from what is happening, float it away somewhere else and pretend my body isn’t part of me, but it’s as if the trauma comes afterwards and the only way is to escape into sleep.

Luxury. I still had two more weeks of ignorance to enjoy.