Empathy 2

Decent hospital art--though I did wonder why the column in back is the one in focus?!?

Cancer has been on my heart a lot lately. It touches so many people I love in so many ways. So, though this post has been sitting in my drafts for months, I think now is the time to publish.

I know my experiences reflect the experience of a lucky, well-insured woman in America. I know a lot of people have it a lot worse. I hate that anyone faces a lack of insurance. I hate that anyone faces a cancer diagnosis. And that’s kind of the point of the post.

Having my toes dipped, ever so slightly, into this pool has cracked my heart wide open for everyone who must swim in it.

Maintaining healthy breasts definitely has some pluses and minuses, at least in my experience. I meet some amazing people during the whole process, but, oh my word, the process just stinks.

I understand where it’s all coming from—I mean, I’m a well-informed, experienced (ie, getting old) adult who actually used to sell breast localization, aspiration, and biopsy needles. So I know the stats. (Skip this part if stats bore you.) Cancer causes the second highest number of deaths in women and breast cancer, the most common cancer women, causes the second highest number of cancer deaths. It’s a thing we need to prevent, if possible.

To get back to me, I have a family history of breast cancer. I also have fibrocystic breasts, aka lumpy breasts. That means that my self-exams do not involve checking for lumps. My exams involve checking to make sure that I have the same NUMBER of lumps, in the same PLACES, and roughly the same SIZE as last time. Except that they’re cysts, so they swell (and hurt like crap) sometimes. And swelling’s normal. Except when it’s not. Hurting is a good (non-cancerous) sign. Except when it’s not. It’s probably nothing. Except when it’s not.

So around about July 9, while out of town having a blast on a girls’ weekend, something swelled at the wrong time and in the wrong place. When I got home, I called my doctor to utter the magic words “history” and “lump” thus getting the next available appointment, which in this busy practice ended up being July 24. Seriously, though, that was pretty fast.

Spoiler: Let me just say that I’m fine. On August 9, one month later, I found out I’m fine. And they’ve now counted and mapped my lumps for future reference. Yay!

So my doctor (awesomely) gave me orders for both a screening mammogram AND follow-up imaging, just in case, to streamline the process. I set it up with a local hospital because I love the people there. And I got in on July 26.

I really do love the people there. Let’s just start with the outpatient registrar, who totally laughed when I said that, while I could 100% confirm the birthdate on my ID bracelet, I do not identify with the age that goes with it. Then she sent me down the hall to the infamous “door with the pink flowers”—I mean, really. We all know it’s mammography, but the subtly off-pink flowers in place of a sign give it an almost self-parodying Steel Magnolias vibe. Who doesn’t love that?

The mammography techs rock. They must give the same reassurances and make the same jokes a billion times a week, but they still do it. They make that utterly (udderly!) ludicrous process normal and quick, while keeping it human. But the one monkey wrench in the whole works comes after the techs do their good work: the radiologist.

I’ve been assured that he’s a genius and that “if I had to pick anyone in the world to read my films, it would be him” but… One, I’ve been in enough workplaces to be able to see that everyone works around this guy. And two, I don’t know if it’s hospital policy or what, but he MAILS results. In an envelope. In the mail. Like, the USPS (slowly) carries it to your mailbox. They call it snail mail for a reason, folks.

So both the hospital and my doctor have online records with a tab for lab results. I signed up and duly checked them every day…about twenty times a day. Seriously, the activity log for both accounts shows stalker-level check ins. Nothing. Well, that’s not true. My “radiology” tab showed a bill for the mammogram, so at least I knew it happened…but that was it. Nothing else. And do not even try to call for results. That’s not an option. The gods of medical records laugh at your feeble attempts to game the system that way.

A WEEK LATER, on August 2, I got an envelope from the hospital in the mail. I assumed it was a bill because, hey, that’s all that showed up in my electronic file. I opened it up to find a form letter. “Normally benign” blah-blah-blah, but “follow up imaging needed.”

Since my awesome doctor had given me the order already, I immediately called the hospital to schedule the ultrasound ASAP, for August 9.

I got there plenty early for the appointment (I wonder why?) and stopped by medical records to see what I could do about getting results some way other than IN THE MAIL. Turns out the only other way is in person. The kindhearted lady there also gave me about six copies of the release I need to sign to let my husband pick up my results as needed, since he works across the street. She even told me how to write my own release in case I ran out of forms!

Then things got fun. The ultrasound tech, Brittany, turned out to be even cooler than mammogram techs, if that’s possible. She kept me chatting about life with boys (our sons are about the same age) and told me fun stories of how much gel you get all over you practicing on each other in ultrasound tech school. She also told me I could feel free not to identify with age on my bracelet; she thought I was much younger. (She actually *IS* much younger, though, so that was cool.)

The best part? She promised to get me results before I left that day. Since that meant waiting, she suggested I’d be most comfortable in the “breast room” aka the mammography suite. I, of course, heard that as “restroom” and momentarily thought she’d lost her mind, but we had a good laugh. In the end, I was free to roam about the hospital. The radiologist had gone into a procedure unexpectedly, but the tech promised to haunt the door until he came out and then call my cell.

While I waited, I got an amazingly strong, delicious latte, expertly made by the lady in the gift shop. I mean, if your cysts are already swollen and sore, why not have caffeine? I also had the joyful experience of listening to a woman a little older than I am lovingly debate with her mother about whether the city of Charlotte is in North or South Carolina. The hysterical dialogue could have been from a Laurel and Hardy routine, but they were so sweet with each other.

In practically no time, Brittany the tech stopped by to let me know that all my cysts were just being their usual cystic selves. Freedom!

Of course, I did get my official results IN THE MAIL a week later. Both my doctor and the radiologist want me to do another ultrasound in six months, now that they’ve mapped my cysts. I can live with that. I may even name the cysts—I figure they’re like little constellations in there. Why not?

I gotta tell you, though—this stinks. I have a friend who describes the brain as a computer. Do you know how annoying it is when your antivirus or backup software runs ALL THE TIME, hanging up the program you’re using? Well, my Norton Cancer Anxiety program ran pretty constantly for that month, hanging up all the other programs in my brain.

I didn’t want to talk about it because what is there to say? But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, either. The kids—feeding, driving, and chatting with them—distracted me pretty well, but otherwise I couldn’t concentrate. I could only do the necessities then read beach novels on my Kindle to calm myself. For a month. And this was my second time in two years.

I guess I need to work on being more zen.

But I had to think: I have insurance and I do not have cancer. How unbelievable paralyzing, all-consuming, and life-altering would this have been if either of those factors changed?

I hate that any person worries about medical bills while wondering if they have cancer. I hate that anyone misses a vital screening for financial reasons. I hate that anyone goes into debt to stay alive.

I’m going back to my Empathy post here. My experience doesn’t compare to others’, but it does give me a path toward empathizing with their experiences. And once I’ve done that, how can I not care?

If anyone in our country faces any of those completely avoidable financial stresses, our system is broken. We need to fix it. I don’t know how, but I’m looking. I’m listening. I’m thinking. I won't forget. And I will vote.

Postscript: I started the process of trying to get life insurance after my August all-clear. Through bureaucratic incompetence, the process took five months. As of this writing, three weeks before my follow-up ultrasound, I have just been denied life insurance. In a way it's validating--I'm not crazy for worrying--but in a way...well, the life insurance company doesn't think I'm a good bet. 

Too bad. I'm doing this thing called life!