Tag Archives: first time

MRI fail

Posted on by

5

I was supposed to have an MRI today to get a better look at the two masses and make sure there’s nothing hiding in my “dense” breast tissue. I made it one-third of the way through the procedure, then quit.

The appointment was scheduled for 7 a.m. I like being the first appointment. In and out, I thought. Then I can hang out at Panera, get some work done, and get ready to see the oncologist at noon.

The hospital volunteer took me back to the MRI area right away. I was given a locker for my things and a gown and pants to put on. A few minutes later, I was taken into the MRI room.

(Sidenote: I had an MRI before, when I was about 19 years old. It was for my head, after I started having some strange symptoms which were later diagnosed as atypical migraines. I remember the machine being loud and very tiny, but it wasn’t too bad.)

One of the techs started an IV for a contrast solution which would help show the abnormal tissues in my breast. She tried both arms – my veins are deep and not easy to hit the first time. She finally managed to start it and then asked me to turn over and lie on my stomach.

She moved the pillow I was laying on while she started the IV, and there were two holes. “Your breasts go here,” she said, pointing to the holes. “Forehead here,” while pointing to a C-shaped elevated platform. “Arms outstretched like Superman on this pillow above your head.”

It was wildly uncomfortable. There’s an elevation between the pelvis and the holes for the breasts. It felt really unnatural. The forehead platform was only elevated about an inch and a half, so very little clearance between the tip of my nose and the bed of the machine. (Also, Lauren used my makeup brushes to paint with my hair gel, which I didn’t know until my overly sensitive skin developed a wildly red, itchy rash on my cheeks and forehead. The forehead platform hit all the red itchiness in all the wrong places.) Plus, it was completely uncomfortable with my arms straight out in front of me.

She put headphones on me. (“To help you relax, focus on the music,” she said.) And handed me a cord with a rubber ball at the end. Apparently this was my way of contacting the techs if I had an issue.

Once situated, she moved the bed into the tube. Because of my position, I couldn’t see how close the sides and top of the machine were to my body, but it felt small (even though I wasn’t touching the sides, I was very aware that I was in a small tube with no easy way out.)

Image shows similar position to my test, except the machine at my hospital required me to go into the tube headfirst.

Image shows similar position to my test, except the machine at my hospital required me to go into the tube head first. Also, my tech didn’t look as happy as this woman does. (Image from GE Healthcare)

“I need out,” I said. And she moved the bed out and allowed me to sit up. I asked how long the test would take (30 minutes), and it was reiterated that I couldn’t move at all during the test or the films wouldn’t match up and we’d have to start again. She recommended that I focus on the mirror placed below my eyes in the forehead platform. “You can see outside the machine through this mirror. It’ll make you think you’re in the open!” she said. I thought, well, now you just told me that what I’m seeing in the mirror is a lie and I’m not REALLY out of the machine, so that’s not really going to work…

“OK, 30 minutes. I can do this,” I said. “Put me back in there.”

Music started in the headphones. Country, not my favorite and certainly not necessarily relaxing. The voice of the male tech came over the headphones. “This first one will be about 40 seconds.”

Thunk, thunk, thunk. The process of getting the images sounds like a jackhammer. I tried to think about being in a downtown area, watching the construction of a beautiful building.

It was a very long 40 seconds. I think he lied about the time.

“How are you doing? Next one is five minutes.”

I opened my eyes and saw the mirror of lies. I lifted a finger and could see the image in the mirror. It was about then that I realized it was really hot in the machine. And there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen.

“You can do this. It’s ony 30 minutes. Go back to the construction image,” I tried to tell myself.

More noise and a really long five minutes.

“How are you? This next one is about four and a half minutes.”

“OUT!” I yelled.

“I can’t understand you,” said the male tech.

I repeated, louder. And squeezed the panic ball.

He came in the room to the opening by my head. “If you talk too loud I can’t understand you in there. Are you okay?”

“I can’t breathe very well. It’s hot in here.”

He still couldn’t understand me since I was essentially talking to the mirror below me and I was stuck in this tube.

I lifted my head and felt a glorious cool breeze on my cheeks. I realized the cool air felt great and being in this position did not move my breasts. “OK, let’s just get this over with.”

I thought I could go the rest of the time with my head elevated, but after a few minutes of the next round of images, the cool breeze wasn’t that cool anymore. I was starting to sweat, and it was getting really hard to breathe – like there just wasn’t enough oxygen in this tube.

After the four and a half minutes of the next round of images ended, I cried to get out. “I just can’t,” I said as tears rolled down my face. “I need up. I need a drink of water. I need air.”

The female tech came back in the room and disconnected the IV and helped me sit up. She gave me a Dixie cup of water and a tissue, and she rubbed my back. “This happens a lot,” she said. “We can’t put you totally under for this procedure since you have to lie on your belly, but you can see your doctor for a Valium or something to take the edge off.”

My hands were shaking and I felt weak – physically and mentally weak for not being able to get through this. Both techs assured me that this was one of the hardest MRI tests because of how the body is contorted.

I just wanted to get dressed and leave.

I called my mom and B when I left, and they both made me feel more calm. Writing this is making me calmer. I finally stopped shaking, and my heart isn’t racing anymore. I’m killing time until my oncology appointment at Panera (one of my happy places), enjoying a mocha, and eating a cinnamon bagel. I figure I deserve it.

On the positive side, there was one option (lumpectomy, maybe?) that would have involved undergoing an MRI annually to supplement the yearly mammogram. Yeah, that’s not happening, so my surgical options are sorting themselves out.

EDITED TO ADD: How badly did I want out of the hospital this morning? Two hours after getting dressed post-MRI fail, and I just discovered my pants were on inside out.

Needles in my boob, the meaning of positive, and so much damn cancer information

Posted on by

3

Didn’t mean to leave anyone hanging, but I’ve spent a ton of time with the kids and B during the holiday break. From Christmas (and so much playing!) to a New Years (kid-free!) getaway with B, it was a great week. In between the fun, I was researching and reading and plotting all the potential scenarios, but as much as possible, I tried to focus on the kids and B. But now I’ve reached the point at which I need to write this out, to get these thoughts and feelings out of my head. As I’ve said before, this blog helps me process, and I’m going to need to process a LOT during this process…

So the update, starting with the Christmas Eve biopsy.

Biopsy

I don’t think I ever want to spend Christmas Eve morning at the breast imaging center again.

The results of my mammogram and ultrasound were suspicious, so the biopsy was the next course of action. Again, not feeling like I had much to fear, I was in good spirits – looking forward to the next day with the family and the start of a week with B.

I changed into a surgical gown and was escorted back to the ultrasound room. The radiologist who would perform the procedure came in. He was really nice, to the point, and very socially awkward (which I appreciate and kind of adore in people). He explained the procedure and looked at the images from my last visit. In a few minutes, I was warned that the local anesthesia would sting a bit. It did, but it wasn’t bad.

A few minutes later, the first incision was made. I watched on the ultrasound as the first mass was found. I could see the radiologist’s needle approaching the mass.

“One. Two. Three,” he counted. Click! I watched as the needle pierced the mass and retracted back. This went on for six or seven times. Count to three. Click sound. Needle in and out. No pain, but I could feel blood dripping down my side.

Then he made a second incision for the next mass. Same procedure, except he forgot to count. “I’m so sorry,” he said with a little under-the-breath laugh. “I forgot to count. Are you okay?”

I assured him I was fine. Since I was watching the whole thing on the monitor, I could see the needle approach and anticipated the click and needle in-out thing. Besides, I couldn’t feel anything with the local anesthesia.

The nurses laughed as I explained that I figured it out and didn’t need the countdown. “Everyone is different,” Nurse Gina said. “Some people ask a ton of questions. Some want to bury their face in a pillow and not look at all.”

The whole thing lasted about an hour. During that time, the nurses, radiologist and I talked about our Christmas plans, recipes for cooking a tenderloin (two of us were making one for dinner the next day), and recipes for our themed holiday drinks. (We would have Cranberry Margarita Martinis, while Nurse Gina was preparing Frozen Grasshoppers.)

When it was over, Nurse Gina applied pressure to the two incisions for about 10 minutes. That was probably the most painful part. It was SERIOUS pressure. Then steri-strips and a gauze/adhesive dressing. The incisions were so small, Nurse Gina had a hard time finding them.

I had to change the dressing a few times that night because I kept bleeding through. It turned a beautiful purple color. (I joked that it matched the dress I was going to wear on New Years.) And there was a lump where the biopsies originated. But there was very little pain.

The worse thing was the flu that I was coming down with and would battle for the next week and a half.

Then waiting… Having B and my mom around, and the kids of course, kept my mind occupied (somewhat), but there was still the WAITING…

Positive Doesn’t Mean “Good”

Friday at 9 a.m., B and my mom were getting ready to leave, after they both spent two nights with the kids and me. My cell phone rang.

“I just got off the phone with the pathologist,” said the socially-awkward radiologist. “It’s positive for breast cancer. Both areas. Wait, sorry. I should have started with asking how you’re feeling since the biopsy…”

I laughed. I’m good, I assured him. Surprised at the results, but the biopsy area was fine.

“I really suspected it was cancer when I saw it,” he said, “but I had to wait for the results to be sure.”

He told me a nurse would call soon to schedule a meeting with a surgeon.

Tears. I walked out of my office and into the kitchen. I looked at my mom and said, “It’s positive.”

She put her arms around me and buried her head in my neck.

“Positive is good, right?” said Ethan, who I didn’t even realize was in the room. Until this point, I hadn’t said anything to the kids.

“Usually, yes,” I said. “But not usually when it comes to medical stuff.”

I explained that I had a test that showed a lump in my breast and had another test to determine what it was. It was the second test that was positive for something and that meant I’d have to see more doctors to find the best way to fix it. That satisfied him and so far, I haven’t said anything else to him.

(I’ve thought a lot about this. Until I have a plan and more information on my particular kind of cancer, talking about it to a kid who’s been through so much would do more harm than good. I really want to be able to say “here’s what’s up, here’s how we fix it, and everything will be okay.” I just don’t have enough information yet to do that.)

About that time, the surgical nurse called. I had already reviewed the surgeon profiles at the cancer center so I knew which surgeon I wanted to see. I had three options: two general surgeons and one breast-only surgeon. I’m going with the breast-only doc. Of course, she’s out of the country until January 12, so things are kind of on hold until then. She’ll be the one to refer me to the oncologist and radiation doc, and order additional testing necessary before surgery.

Information Overload

In the waiting time, I had an “education session” with Nurse Gina. I brought my mom for two reasons: 1) the cancer people kept asking if I had a support system (since I’d been alone during the mammogram and biopsy) and I wasn’t sure they believed that I did have support, and 2) I thought it would help my mom. (It did make her feel more comfortable.)

Most of what Nurse Gina covered, I knew from my hours of research, but there were two points that caused me to cry.

She explained that since I was pre-menopausal and under 50, I would most likely have to endure chemotherapy. As she went over the specifics and side effects of chemo, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself. Losing my hair, eyelashes, eyebrows – “fuckity fuck fuck,” was the only thing I could think as tears streamed down my face. As she continued with the services offered in the cancer center – head shaving, wig fitting, scarf tying, eyebrow makeup classes – more tears. Tears because, quite frankly, I can hide all of this from people, but not if I lose hair. Then I’ll get sympathy looks, which I hate. I also teared because it’s so ridiculously vain – and that pissed me off that I could be so damned vain about HAIR… And it cycled back through again.

The second thing that caused me to cry was when she asked if I told the kids yet. I said no, and explained why and what they did know. She gave me information on how to tell kids, which is somewhat helpful, but given our situation, it’s so much more complicated. I just tear whenever someone talks about or I think about how my kids have been affected (and in some cases, messed up) by so many things out of their control. And at such young ages. This is just one more thing for them to worry about.

Nurse Gina was fantastic during the education session. She made my mom feel completely at ease. She sent me home with an inch-thick book and a two-inch binder, plus a ton of pamphlets and brochures on information and resources locally and nationally. I like having as much info as possible, so I’ve already devoured everything except the book (which seems to be a lot of info I’ve found in my research). And last night, I started researching wigs and scarf tying and the god-awful bras and inserts made for women who’ve gone through breast surgeries.

That’s where things stand right now. Stay tuned… there are still a half-dozen topics I want to write about, and will write about, in the coming days/weeks.

Lump

Posted on by

1

I was watching the season finale of Sons of Anarchy last week, when I found a lump in my breast. A big one (the lump, not my breast). Also, don’t judge about why I was doing a self exam while watching TV. (Very disappointed at the CGI at the end of that finale. Lame.)

I called my doctor the next day, and went in for a check up. She did an exam and said she was pretty confident it was no big deal. But advised that I get a mammogram anyway. Besides, I’m 41, and I should establish a boob-baseline.

Yesterday was the mammogram and ultrasound (ultrasound was necessary since I could feel the lump). I was joking with the techs, and watching on the screens. They took a lot of images, but since this was my first mammogram, I wasn’t sure what was normal. Honestly, I wasn’t worried. I’m healthy. There’s absolutely no cancer of any sort in my family. What could go wrong?

I knew it wasn’t good when the radiologist came in to give the results and asked if I wanted to have someone with me during the consult.

Um, I came alone. It’s just a test, right? Surely, she was going to tell me it was a cyst. Maybe it needed drained, but no biggie, right?

So, there are two rather large masses in my right breast. They’re solid, so they’re not cysts and unlikely to be menstrual-cycle related. They’re also not perfectly round. Good news: they’re not spider-webby, just a little pointy on each side. The radiologist was rating the area as a BIRAD 5. The scale only goes to 6, with 6 being a confirmed malignancy. The radiologist said I could wait until after the holiday to schedule a biopsy since there was unlikely going to be a change. Then she left the room so I could wipe the ultrasound goop from my chest.

I sat stunned as the tech ushered me back to the locker room to change into my clothes before meeting with the surgical nurse, who could answer questions.

I just stared at the tan and blue dressing room curtain. What the fuck does this mean?

Waiting for the nurse in her office, I did a quick google search for things to ask when your mammogram comes back suspicious. I never had a reason to pay attention to news articles or information about breast health. All I could think was “shit, I should have paid attention more to women’s health topics.” I felt completely uninformed.

The nurse was great. Straight forward, which I like and appreciate. I listened to information about the procedure, and then asked her my “what if” questions: what if it’s more than just a mass? What if it’s cancer? What are the options if it’s not cancer? What are the options if it is?

She answered everything, straight to the point, no-nonsense. Then sent me to scheduling.

I go in for a biopsy on Christmas eve at 8:45.

I spent last night researching. I’m a researcher, have to know my options. My head is like a flowchart: if this, then that. And I needed to fill in as many of those holes as possible. I like options, even if I never need them.

B called last night. He knew I was going in for tests. I broke down into tears when I was talking to him. It was the first time I cried since getting the news. I cried even more when I tried to go to sleep last night. It isn’t the procedure or even what it might show. It’s how this will impact the kids.

What if…

Then ((tears)).

Dream and “more” – connection or coincidence?

Posted on by

0

It’s been 26 months since he died, and until last night, I hadn’t had a dream about Mike or even one in which he appeared.

In last night’s dream, Mike and I were dating, I think. At least, we didn’t seem to know each other super well. We definitely weren’t married in this dream. He was my “plus one” to a fundraiser (dinner and silent auction) at some fancy-pants hotel. He was kind of being a jerk – quiet/not talkative, not responsive to stories or jokes or questions, basically ignoring me. At one point (when he excused himself to the men’s room), I hid in another room, contemplating leaving the fundraiser alone. Ultimately, I decided to allow myself to be “found” and give him another chance to salvage the date.

Then I woke up.

I’m not a huge believer in dream analysis, but this dream comes as B and I have talked about “more” in our relationship (“more” of each other, “more” than just weekends, “more” of pretty much everything having to do with one another).

SIDE NOTE: Adult relationships are complicated – kids, jobs, responsibilities. I didn’t have these considerations last time I dated, almost 20 years ago. (Twenty years ago, it was: want to spend more time together? Move in with one another! Life was so much less complex…)

Not sure how or if the dream is connected to what’s happening with B, but I’ve been distracted all day…

Ex date

Posted on by

0

I was robbed of having an ex-husband. I never had a chance to figure out how to co-parent or balance an ex with a new relationship. Some friends have remarked that I’m lucky in that way. Ha!

I really felt, when Mike and I separated, that we’d eventually fall into a rhythm, a separate-lives-but-always-intertwined sort of understanding. I honestly thought we’d maintain a friendship revolving around the kids. We were together for almost 20 years. We knew each other in a way no one else could ever imagine – we matured from college to grad school to life to parenthood. It was a bond no one else could ever be part of. Even if we wouldn’t be together, we’d remain attached.

Perhaps it’s because of this mindset that I “get” B’s relationship with his ex-wife. I’ve met her on a couple of occasions, usually in passing as they’d exchange the kids with one another.

Of course, B told stories about her. And, of course, I’d done my own research. Based on her Pinterest boards and some stuff she’d posted publicly on FB, I thought we could be friends (if things were different).

That’s why when B proposed going to the circus with all four kids – and his ex-wife – I was totally game.

B was nervous to ask if I’d be okay with the ex coming along. She wanted to be there when her girls experienced their first circus. She and B make an effort to do things together with their kids every month or so. And she’s their mom – she SHOULD be part of these things. I was totally cool with it.

I was only concerned that Ethan would ask wildly inappropriate questions of her. B laughed at this thought and said he should totally mess with her. (I disagreed and bribed E with Pokemon cards if he was on his best behavior.)

So we all went to the circus. Me and Ethan and Lauren. B and his ex and their two girls.

The ex greeted me with a HUGE hug, complimented my hair, and acted like we’d known each other for years. She shook E’s hand and told Lauren she liked her dress. And we were off.

We arrived just as the circus was starting. Good timing, considering three of the four kids are UNDER the age of four (meaning no one has any patience to wait). Lauren and B’s daughter (who’s the same age as L) both sat on my lap. The baby sat on the ex’s lap with Ethan sitting at her side. (E adores the baby, and the baby LOVES E, so they wanted to sit close.) B sat next to me and the girls.

We watched. We laughed. We ooh’d and ahh’d. B and I held hands and made our own commentary about the ridiculous acts – like SkyMan, a completely generic superhero whose act was basically one bungee cord trick after another.

After two hours, the circus went into intermission and all three little girls broke down. So we left before someone was shot out of the cannon (bummer).

It was really a fun morning with B and his girls…and the ex. The ex and I parted ways with another big hug and a few laughs in the parking garage elevator. Later, the ex told B that it was obvious why he liked me, saying that we share the same sense of silly, nerdy humor. She also said E and L were awesome, and she liked spending time with us.

The ex is always going to be part of B’s life, and as we approach the one-year mark of our relationship, I hope to be part of B’s life for a long time, too. I think there’ll be more outings, just the seven of us…