One of my scariest scenarios ever does have a happy ending, thank God

Before these last two weeks, I had a bit of working knowledge about the seven stages of grief - mainly from an episode of The Simpsons when Homer ate what he thought was the poison portion of a blow fish and went through all seven stages in a hilarious seven seconds - but never had them directly apply to me. That changed on May 7, when I found a lump in my breast . Though my story concludes with a happy ending, this account in no way is meant to diminish the horrible news that could have been that other people have to deal with every day.

I wish I would have been able to blog about this issue as it was going on, but I honestly didn't want anyone - including myself - to deal with it or worry unnecessarily. So I'm posting it now in retrospect in this admittedly too-long post.


Thinking back these past two weeks, of course my first reaction was shock and denial (phase 1). I told myself that this wasn't a lump - it was something that felt lumpy, but was totally normal because there obviously was something just like it on my other breast in the exact same place, right? Nope.


But after confirming to myself that this was so not normal -with help from my mom - the only pain and guilt (phase 2) I felt was pain - physical pain because I was messing with it by constantly checking to see if maybe I had been mistaken and maybe it was just some weird thing that went away on its own. Nope.


And though I think I skipped anger and bargaining (phase 3) I most definitely spent a chunk of time on phase 4: depression, reflection, and loneliness.


And I can pinpoint the exact moment phase 4 punched me in the face.


It was during my appointment at West Side Radiology - an appointment I made after my OB-GYN confirmed just a few days prior that I did have a lump and should get it checked out. When I met with my OB-GYN, she said the doctor at my follow-up appointment would use ultrasound equipment to take a breast ultrasound to see if the lump was something harmless, like an enlarged node or something that could potentially be more serious, like a tumor.


After what seemed like eons later (which in reality was two days) I finally went to my follow-up appointment to hopefully get good news. It wasn't. And I knew that it wasn't OK when the nurse who did the ultrasound came back with the doctor, who did the ultrasound again, and told me that yes, it was a mass.


"What does that mean? It's a tumor?" I remember asking in a voice that seemed to be too small to be my own because while I was lying on the table with one arm over my head, I was also tugging at my hair in an attempt to distract myself from the tears that threatened to spill out in front of the doctor and nurse.


"Yes. It's a tumor," he said, then proceeded to tell me that it's most likely benign, and not the scary malignant, because of my age, and gave me all kinds of hopeful scenarios that would most likely play out after he did a biopsy of the lump.


Though that was supposed to be good news, all I focused on as a trudged home looking at my tennis shoes the entire way were the words "most likely." Though a few tears slipped out here and there, I waited until I got home until I let out a full-on hyperventilating cry that both surprised and frightened me. Those who know me well know that when given a potential situation, I always prepare for the worst. In this case, I was preparing myself for the highly unlikely scenario that the doctor would tell me I had X number of months to live.


Because of the time frame, I had very little time for the upward turn (phase 5) and reconstruction and working through (phase 6) because honestly during the past two weeks, I tried my hardest to ignore it. To forget about it. I didn't want to worry about it unless there was something to worry about. Brent made that quite hard, as he wanted me to research the possibilities and educate myself so I could ask the doctor educated questions, which I agreed was a good idea, but I just didn't want to deal with it.


But I did it anyway, and actually did feel a little better because most signs pointed to something that wasn't breast cancer. But I couldn't be sure until the doctor performed a biopsy. The afternoon of the minor surgery, Brent of course came with me to my appointment, and his presence meant everything. But it wasn't until he was told he couldn't come with me to the procedure that I got scared. But my nurse was amazing, made sure I understood everything that was going to happen, and reassured me over and over before it began.


It didn't really hurt, as I was lying on my left side and the area was numbed so the doctor could put in a big needle to thread a smaller needle through. I was OK right up to the point where he made the incision - which I couldn't feel. What I did feel, though, was the blood trickle down my back. That's when I started to cry, and was glad that I was facing a wall away from the doctor. What didn't help when he let out a very guttural, "Hmmmm."


Hmmmmm!?!?!


"Is everything OK?" I managed to ask him.


"Yes, it's just that the tumor is in a very difficult place behind a lot of tissue," he replied.


Great.


Nonetheless, he got two samples, and because it then began to really hurt, he stopped and said he got what he needed. After gingerly getting dressed, Brent walked me home with my care papers and I fully expected him to get me set at home and go back to work. But he pleasantly surprised me with news that he wasn't going to go back to work and was instead going to spend the rest of the day changing my ice packs, making me meals, helping me take my bath, and all-around being the best husband ever.


Even though I fully expected the results not to be available until after the long Memorial Day weekend (they were supposed to take 3 to 10 business days to come back) I called two days later, on a Thursday, in the hope that I would be able to have them on Friday. When I called the doctor's office, I got a receptionist, and explained what I was looking for. After a brief pause, she came back with, "Your results are on the doctor's desk."

"Sooooooo, can I have them then?" I asked.


"The doctor will call you. She always calls patients with test results," the receptionist said.


"I'm sure she does, but since I'm really nervous at this point and since I'll be going out of town tomorrow, can I have them now?" I asked.


"Are you going to be reachable tomorrow?" she asked. "Because if not, I'll have to let the doctor know that."


"OR YOU COULD WALK NEXT DOOR AND TELL ME WHAT MY TEST RESULTS ARE SINCE THEY'RE SITTING RIGHT THERE!!!!!" I screamed. In my mind.


What I really explained to her was that I was going to be in and out of reachability tomorrow, so it would be best for the doctor to call me back that day.


Less than 30 minutes later, the doctor called and said those magical words.


"It's benign."


That's when I let myself drape over the bed in relief to stare at the reproduced painting of Monet's waterlilies that hangs over my bed, which I put there because they make me happy. I then listened to her tell me that the tumor is not cancer, but is actually a fibroadenoma, which is a hard mass of benign tissue that forms for any number of reasons. It won't go away on its own, but has to be closely monitored in case it changes size or causes pain. But it's essentially harmless.


After a few phone calls to reassure my husband, parents, and in-laws, I just stayed on the bed for awhile, thinking of the bullet I dodged. I then prayed to thank God that I never had to go through acceptance and hope (phase 7), and wondered how other people do it. They are people much stronger than me.