A Month of Fear-Driven Memories

Here we go again…

Around this time of the year, I get uneasy. It’s February, which means it’s time for my mammogram and the determination of whether I’m still in remission from breast cancer. It’s also the month when, in 2017, my life was slammed in a different direction and the best I could do was try to hang on.

February 8, 2017: Doctor’s appointment. After feeling a lump in my breast for six months (SIX MONTHS!!!), I finally met with my general practitioner to have her tell me it was nothing. Except that’s not what she said. Instead, she gave me a referral for a diagnostic mammogram and warned me not to put it off.

My own mammogram is on February 27, 2020. I don’t think I’m going to get bad news, but I just want it over.

February 23, 2017: My mammogram and diagnostic ultrasound. I had not expected that waiting two weeks for a screening would be so horrible, but my anxiety worsened with every day. I also had not expected the radiologist to come in and tell me that I had cancer. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to do that without biopsy results, but he knew what he was looking at. One in eight women is diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in her life, so he’d seen his share. Things spiraled downhill after that.

February 28, 2017: Biopsy. This procedure was anticlimactic in the sense that I knew I had cancer (see above). What I didn’t yet know was how aggressive it was. The procedure itself wasn’t bad but the mammography technicians were unable to get a clear picture of the titanium markers that the radiologist who biopsied me had inserted as surgical guides, so they took over eleven mammogram images on that left breast. The physical squeezing was miserable, but I was being squeezed mentally too. I think they eventually got the image they wanted…or maybe they didn’t. It was all a blur. I didn’t want to remember.

But now it’s three years later and I remember everything too clearly. Every February, I lose my footing on the Earth and hover for a few weeks in limbo, starting from when I make my mammogram appointment.

I’ll have an uneasy feeling until I get the “all clear” from the radiologist, or “I’m so sorry, but…”. On one end of the continuum, there’s glorious relief, on the other, mind-numbing anxiety, and I’m standing here in the middle. Most of my life now is lived in this middle ground and it’s a struggle to release expectations and attachments to how I want things to be. I’m not great at it, but I have the rest of my life to learn to deal. I hope that’s enough time.

View from the Waiting Room

I am weirdly at ease.

Today is my 3-D mammogram, the one that will either confirm that I’m in breast cancer remission or that I’m going to have another rotten year (or more). Two years ago, around this time, I was completely racked with anxiety in preparation for the diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound that would detect my cancer.

I feel placid. Granted, I do self-exams on an almost-weekly basis (it’s a survivor thing) and was checked out by my oncologist early last month, so I know there’s nothing palpable there, although the 3-D mammogram could pick something smaller up. But I’ve also matured in my ability to let go of thoughts that drag my mind away to wild extremes, and instead accept what is happening in the moment.

I admit that I’m holding off on travel and hair expenses until after my mammogram, because if my cancer comes back, the money spent on them would be better put towards treatment. Neither a cross-country flight nor an edgy new haircut would be in the cards for me.

If I could have one superpower, it would be to remain calm in every situation.

Another reason for waiting on making plans? It’s because the agony associated with desperately clinging to the desire to be cancer-free and then having those hopes dashed is excruciating. So for the moment, hanging around in limbo with less emotion invested in an outcome provides more comfort.

I started meditating in an effort to free myself of expectations. Today I am able to make space within myself to hold the possibility of both remission and recurrence, and then to think about neither.

So I sit in a comfy robe as I wait for the radiologist’s assessment, feeling the warmth of the cup of tea in my hand. I am here now, focused on the present instead of potential outcomes. And this is the most peaceful place to be.

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Shortly after I wrote the above, the radiologist came in to confirm the good news. Another year, another clean bill of health.

Last year when I got the “all-clear” I was still finishing up treatments. And the news felt like a huge release.

This year, I felt much calmer. Not gonna lie — somewhere inside, try as I might to release all expectations, I still expected to be okay. But I was able to not focus on the outcome of the mammogram and instead go with the flow of the day. This is a first for me, so my ability to maintain that level of calm may be more significant than being cancer-free.

Oh, who am I kidding? Being cancer-free kicks ass!