One Lump Or Two?

"Hi, Laura? Yes, we're going to need to do a repeat of your mammogram and then maybe an ultrasound to really get a good look. Okay?"

Sure. Yes. It is okay. It's okay because you have no history of breast cancer in your family. It's okay because you've never smoked. It's okay because you nursed two babies and actually had a breast reduction, which is supposed to drop your chances of breast cancer by a whopping 50%. And you have a wonderful friend who had an actual lump found, after her reduction surgery, which turned out to be scar tissue. It's probably just scar tissue. So, yeah, no problem; it's okay.

You make the appointment, tell your husband, try to see if the two of you can figure out a way for him to go with you. You don't tell most people--it's just not that big of a deal--and when you can't figure out a plan you say it's not a problem. You'll just go yourself; you'll be back before anybody even realizes it.

It's fine. It's fine. It's fine, until the actual morning of the procedure. You drive from the house to school and hear, "Fight Song" on the radio and the crying begins. You can't make it stop. The flashes of your children--as high schoolers, graduating, adults, parents--won't stop blinking before your eyes. You pull yourself together, your work day starts, your husband figures out a way to come with you. It's fine again, fine. No problem. It's just scar tissue, it's fiiiiiine.

On the drive, your brain explodes. Remember all the years of birth control? Does that increase your risk or decrease? You can't remember. And FERTILITY drugs. Good Lord, all the fertility drugs you took. Your crazy brain decides you want to be cremated. You definitely want an immediate mastectomy. You don't want to spend the last months of your life trying to fix something unworkable. You'll pull the kids out of school and travel and go do all the things you want to make sure they do. You'll eat octopus and sleep in a tent in the desert and run up the Rocky steps in Philly.

When you get in the room, your first scan is there and you see it. About the size of the dime, clearly standing white against the dark background. Even YOU can see it. You are numb. So, as the woman straps and squeezes and pushes and pulls you in the vice, you cannot stop thinking of your family. Of your oldest, in a suit, giving a presentation for her doctorate. Of your son, playing basketball in high school, raising his arm after an unintentional foul. Of your baby, ponytail swinging, trotting arm-in-arm with her BFF down the hallways of her school. Of your husband, the trip you plan for your first fall of retirement, going to Vermont to see the leaves. You hope he remarries. You also hope he doesn't. You think of your grandchildren, your kids' weddings, your husband's "old man laugh". You'll miss it all.

You wait in the chair, when she's finally done, and hold your breath. Never, not one single time, do you think of work. You had grown up telling your father "No man ever says on his death bed, 'Gee, I wish I'd spent more time at work,'" and it's true. You don't worry about what the students will do or the teachers or the programs... Your family is all.

"Okay, Laura. You did great. You're all set to go home! You won't need that ultrasound afterall!"

The chair drops from under you. The earth shakes. You head sings. "I, I'm okay?"

"Yup. You did great."

You can't wait to get home. To your kids, your dogs, your husband, your heart. Your story is there.