Scan – Frantic Shanti

Year 8 Mammogram: Can’t Shake This Feeling

^{(Title image: Photo by 🐣 Luca Iaconelli 🦊 on Unsplash)}

A couple of weeks ago, I had my 8-year 3-D mammogram. To be clear, this is eight years following the original diagnostic 2-D mammogram and ultrasound that identified my breast cancer tumor.

This far down the road, the situation seems much less dire. The mammogram takes place shortly after one of my visits to the oncologist, who does a manual breast exam. So if anything should show up on the 3-D mammogram, it would still be quite early stage.

And at this point in my life, my greatest fear is not something showing up on a mammogram, it’s something showing up on another scan elsewhere in my body, because that would mean metastasis.

I’m busy, busy, busy. Too busy to worry, right? RIGHT?
(Photo by Dan Freeman on Unsplash)

But that was not the case this year. I was preoccupied with other concerns including a car purchase, the upcoming practicum for my yoga4cancer training and an NIH grant renewal for the lab I work in. The main thing that I was thinking of regarding the mammogram was how badly my ribs might hurt as I was pulled closer into the scanner and smushed up against the machine.

And also, how sleep deprived my husband and I would be since we had an early morning appointment. Following which I needed to get to the office, while catching a webinar on the way. Lots of stuff to juggle.

So that’s the mindset with which I arrived at the imaging center. And that’s what was going through my head as I made small-talk with the friendly technician and went through the scanning process.

But then she left the room to bring the scans to the attending radiologist’s attention. Note: at our imagining center, if you are a cancer survivor, the radiologist reads your scans while you’re in the imaging room so that you don’t have to wait for results via phone call, through an online notification or—even worse—via the mail. You get them then and there.

Before the tech left she offered me use of the bathroom. I didn’t need it, but I realized that while waiting for the results I needed to keep my mind busy. Off to the bathroom I went, feeling into my feet as I walked like a good little mindful girl.

My big burning ball of cancer experience has quite a long memory tail!
(Photo by Jacob Dyer on Unsplash)

So again, it’s been eight years. I’ve had quite a few mammograms and other scans in that time. I’ve gotten a lot better about dealing with them and I certainly don’t experience severe “scanxiety” with mammograms.

But when I was done with the bathroom and sat back down in the imagining room with the monolithic mammography machine quietly staring back at me, I wanted to be done with it. I wanted to be dressing and leaving and on my way to the next thing.

Again, it’s been eight years, but I had to grab my phone and distract myself with work emails so that I wouldn’t think about anything else.

EIGHT YEARS, people! Cancer is like a fiery comet with a long tail that is visible for years after the thing itself passes.

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Oh! I got a clean bill of health. Good to go for another year!

From a Safe Distance

It’s hard to believe that six years ago I was a week and a half away from my final chemo infusion, in the thick of being a cancer patient with no idea of what tomorrow would bring.

Cancer survivorship used to be a whole lotta “looking over your shoulder” for the next thing to hit.

I also thought that I’d live the rest of my life, however much or little of it there was left, in fear, always looking over my shoulder to see if cancer was close behind. In fact, after my active treatment was over, I expected that my anxiety would increase because I imagined that whatever had triggered my tumor growth would again be unleashed and ready to attack my again.

And when I had to stop aromatase inhibitors early due to side effects, I envisioned even more terror because I wouldn’t have the medication’s protection anymore.

None of this suggested that I would have a very pleasant future. Either I would get cancer again…or I’d be consumed by worry over getting cancer again.

Reality turned out to be quite different.

The more (1) I practiced being present, coupled with the (2) increasing distance between my last dose and today, the easier it has become. Now, that might sound like a no-brainer, but it was news to me.

And I don’t know exactly when I turned the corner on my fear but it was probably after the worst letrozole side effects ceased and I was able to reflect on and accept that cancer happened and now I was moving past it.

It took years to get to that point, but it would have probably come sooner if I hadn’t convinced myself that I’d never get there.

And how are things different now? I don’t think of cancer every minute of every day. And when I do think about it, it doesn’t seem as daunting.

I realized this after meeting a cancer survivor who works at a store that I frequent. She revealed that she’d just received her three-year “all-clear”. The relief on her face was unmistakable.

And it struck me that I used to have that incredible sense of gratitude too. And I still kind of do for a short bit, but it fades quickly as I turn my focus to the rest of my daily responsibilities.

Yes, I am still seeing my oncologist twice a year, having annual 3D mammograms AND the occasional MRI, so it’s less likely that something’s going to sneak up on me. But the concern is no longer as all-encompassing because it doesn’t feel as likely.

Of course, I could be kidding myself. Even after six-plus years I know that every set of scan results is a door to either “no evidence of disease (NED)” or “we’ll get you in to see the oncologist ASAP”. So far I keep going through the NED door…and it keeps opening onto a bright day.

In the midst of taking things for granted, it’s nice to stop and think about that.

Again, the Mammogram

It feels like it wasn’t all that long ago that I had my five-year 3-D mammogram…and here I am with my six-year scan.

I’m writing this prior to the scan and will follow up with the results at the end of this post, but I find it useful to write while I am still experiencing the little uncertainties that come with scans. Like a Schroedinger’s-esque situation, I am both a cancer survivor and a cancer patient right now, since no matter how small a chance that another tumor will be found in my breast, survivor and patient are my only two possible modes of existence.

For this short period of time, I’m both survivor and patient.

For my own sake, I try to release all expectations at this time. I don’t want to relax and tell myself that I’m sure that the scan will be clear, because the drop down from that back into “cancer patient” state would be too fast and steep, so I breath deeply and anticipate nothing. But that’s hard to maintain.

At the same time, just a few weeks after seeing my oncologist who skillfully performed a clinical breast exam and found nothing, it’s very unlikely that a mammogram would bring up anything life-changing for me at this time. In fact, if anything were found, it would be a tumor in its nascent stages that would be much easier to treat than the one I had in 2017. Or so I tell myself.

To be frank, it’s not locating another tumor in the breast that constitutes the scariest scary outcome. No, it’s the not finding a tumor in some other part of the body — perhaps a lone sleeper cell that evaded chemotherapy’s effects and circulated through my body before grabbing onto a vital organ and silently beginning to grow.

That’s the real bad news…but it would not be the news I’d get today.

This brings me back to that situation that all cancer survivors face: accepting that there are no guarantees.

For the next hours before my mammogram I will focus on work, think of nothing to do with cancer and take deep conscious breaths. As I sit in the waiting room I will gently distract myself, submit to the squishing of the scan and hang in the stillness of the present moment until I get my response…and hopefully go on for another year. Maybe.

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So, I’m back now with the outcome that I was both hoping for and (to be honest) expected: All clear for one more year!

And even though I always play it cool before and during the scan, the difference in my state is really noticible after I get the thumbs-up sign. Those minutes of sitting and waiting for my results [note: as a cancer survivor, I get my answer on the spot, which I really appreciate] are a little uncomfortable — I float, trying to focus on my breathing. But to this day, even when I’m “not expecting bad news”, I cannot shake that tickle of unease.

And that’s just another part of being comfortable with being uncomfortable. Still working on it…