The Test

It was that time again.  I was six months overdue for what Kaiser has deemed an appropriate interval between mammograms.  So 2-1/2 years after my previous one, now armored only by a bronze health insurance plan and feeling very ambivalent and reluctant to undergo the damn thing at all, I caved.

The day after the mammogram, I got a call.  An overly cheerful male voice announced that radiology would like to take a few more pictures, that they had noticed something.

I sighed.  Great, I thought.

“Can you come in again in the next few days?” he asked.

As chance would have it, I was working at home that day, and I happen to live three blocks from Kaiser.  Lucky me.  “I’ll come within the hour,” I said.

On my walk over, I was feeling really pissed off.  

Within several minutes of my arrival, a radiology tech ushered me in and took several more pictures of my right breast, which, laughably, there isn’t much of to begin with.

“Okay, great.  Now wait here.  I’ll be back in ten minutes.”  I got dressed.

Remarkably, in less than ten minutes, the tech returned and led me down a hall to an office where a young woman was sitting in a chair in front of a computer.

“Hi, my name is Casey.  I’m a nurse practitioner.  Have a seat.”

The next 15 minutes were a surreal blur.  On the screen of her computer, she pointed out to me four pin prick-sized calcifications in my right breast pretty far back from the front.  Tiny, tiny. The radiologist, via Kaiser protocol, had deemed this biopsy-worthy.  When I asked what that entailed, what I keenly gleaned from the words that oozed from the nurse practitioner’s mouth was that it would involve cutting.  She went so far as to suggest that I could kill two birds with one stone by removing the area of calcification WHILE they performed the biopsy procedure, since they were already infiltrating the tissue, and be done with it.

I was stupefied.

I asked what other women had done in my situation.  By this point, I think she knew that I would take no bullshit from her and that she better be straight with me.

“Well, calcifications are very common, and 75 percent of the time, they’re nothing to worry about. But 25 percent turn out to be pre-cancerous.”

PRE-cancerous?  What the hell does that mean?  25 percent?

“Some women do opt to return in six months for more films to see if anything has changed before taking further action.”

“Ah,” I said.  “I like that door.  I’ll pick that one.”

“Okay.  Well, due to liability issues, I have to send you a letter that you have to acknowledge receipt of via signature that documents our conversation and that you have opted to wait.”

“No problem.” I replied.

“Kaiser’s official recommendation is to proceed with the biopsy.  But I understand your decision.”

Listen,” I said.  “You have to do your job, and I have to do mine.  This is my body.  Thank you for your time.”

I was out the door, actually feeling better than when I had entered.

Over the next few days as I tossed and turned over what had transpired, I slowly settled into a comfortable position.  A calm clarity.  A resolute peace.  My anger had burned through a filmy residue of fear.  Now I knew how the game was played.  Six months hence, I thought, I may or may not return for more films.

But my biggest fear?  I’ll let the bastards scare me again.