A week later, I am back at the radiologist for my followup. I'm hoping this second set of films will show a shadow or some other simple explanation for why I was asked to come back for "diagnostic imaging".
No woman loves mammograms. Especially a women with, how shall we say..."healthy size boobs". That's what we'll call them. I've had the girls since 6th grade. It seems they've always been one size. Healthy size.
Early in puberty, my very southern and very conservative mother did everything possible to hide them. The tightest bras possible. Minimizers. Because not only they made shopping for highly modest pre-teen clothing in the mid-1970s more difficult than it should have been, but also because it reminded her that her "little girl" wasn't so little any more.
So back to the radiologist. The technician took the films. Another technician did an ultrasound, which took flippin' forever it seemed. Then we took more films. Each time, I had to wait for the radiologist to review and provide more instruction. Obviously my instincts were right. There was a problem.
Finally I was allowed to get dressed. I was asked to wait in a room for the doctor to come talk to me. Another bad sign. He walks in, pulls a chair up very close to me and sits in it. He looks me directly in the eye and says "you have a problem". I already knew that, but that statement hit me hard.
I could feel the tears coming. I cry easily. I'm an emotional being. And once the flood gates open even a smidge, I can't reign it in. He hands me a box of kleenex. I think of my son, away at college. I think of my job. I think of my dog. All the implications.
I take a deep breath, wipe my eyes, and say "Ok. So what do we do about it?" That was my first step of courage. I immediately accepted the problem and owned it. Now I was going to work it.
No comments:
Post a Comment