I waited 10 impatient years for puberty's magic. When it genetics failed me I had a breast augmentation at 23. I never loved my breasts, even after the implants. They were always too much or too little 'fill in the blank here'. A breast exam with unexpected results made room for a different perspective….
Breast exams, whether a self exam or in a medical office, are investigating for something sinister. An irregularity causes an immediate rise in blood pressure, and dread seeps as the mammogram is scheduled. I had my first mammogram two years ago. I’d been told it was uncomfortable, but as always, women's discomfort is diminished. Mammograms crush you between plastic and cold metal as the machine clicks and whirs searching for irregularities. It's cold. You're nervous. You're told not to breathe. If the view is obstructed, you're ushered into an ultrasound and further prodded as you anxiously wait for the cold wand to find a heat signature.
I’ve received several mammograms and breast ultrasounds for the past 18 months to follow up on a small, persistently illusive, abnormality. After my second or third ultrasound the nurse acted strangely. She said I would, "prefer to hear the results from the doctor". This comment and subsequent immediate mammogram, convinced me for 30 minutes that the spot had grown into cancer. I looked down at my right breast during the mammogram and had a fleeting thought…"my breast". Not my boob, not my implant, but my breast. My beautiful breast. Then, almost immediately, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I thought of it being removed or being terribly scarred. Then I thought… she'll be gone or forever changed without ever being loved.
Clamped into a machine wondering if I was leaving the path of health and starting the journey of illness brought decades of resentment and rest. I stopped seeing my body and started feeling it. My soft breasts without scars, resting gently onto my stomach, a strong core developed after years of yoga. Legs. Just legs. Standing straight. Holding us up while we waited, for the first time in years, as a whole.
The whirring stopped. I inhaled. The clamp lifted. I slipped back into the medical gown and sat down. The doctor came in and told me I didn't have cancer. The spot wasn’t growing. It was a cyst. The flood of relief was immediate. The final diagnosis was poor bedside manner and an active imagination living in a mind riddled with anxiety. October is the month we wear pink. We support breast cancer patients and survivors. It's easy to forget that you too are a patient who needs care and support. This month wear pink, but also schedule the mammogram. No amount of Botox will fix the worry lines formed if you miss a lump.