tests

I wish I kept a journal.  I want so badly to remember the last normal day I had.

Ten days ago, everything was normal.  I felt great.  In fact, I felt better than I had felt since I was a teenager.  I had lost 30 pounds.  I had taken up running.  I felt healthy and strong.  The only problem was this itch.

On the very last day that everything was normal, I called my doctor at Kaiser Permanente.  I told her about the itch.  At first it was merely annoying because I could neither identify or isolate the itch.  It was all over and it was nowhere.  It was possibly a bite from the biggest mosquito in the world.  It wasn’t even constant.  It was intermittent and started at random, inconvenient moments.

One day late in January, it wasn’t itchy anymore.  It burned.  The only thing I can compare it to was the sensation I sometimes felt during breastfeeding, but it wasn’t even similar to that.  It hurt more.  It didn’t go away, either.  At one point, I took an Advil and lay down.  It wasn’t painful, but it was unfamiliar and uncomfortable.  The Advil started to work, I got up, and forgot about it.  Until it came back.

And again, that’s the thing about not keeping a journal.  I don’t know when it came back.  I can barely remember on a day-to-day basis what I’ve eaten for breakfast during any given week, so my sense of time is not reliable.  Ten days?  I guess.  We’ll say ten days.  Ten days later, the burning came back, accompanied by the infernal itching.  It was driving me crazy this time.  It was so annoying and distracting I locked myself in my room, removed my top and decided to just finally look at the damn thing and see if I could find any kind of superficial evidence of the bite inflicted on me by some unseen rabid animal.

I felt a hard spot.  Not on the surface, but way under the skin.  Kind of flat, with definite edges.  Weird.

I do self-exams all the time.  Don’t I?  Of course.  There’s no way I could have missed that.  I was so sure it hadn’t been there a few days ago.  Right?  Right?

Maybe it had been there.  Maybe it hadn’t.  But right then, I couldn’t deny it.  There was something in my breast.

Later that day, I asked my husband about it.

My husband thinks I’m a hypochondriac.  And maybe I am.  Every month or so, I ask him if something looks infected or if I have a fever.  The answer is always “no”, followed by a snort.  It’s so predictable.  I become convinced I have pneumonia or something, he tells me to walk it off, we laugh; sometimes I come down with a cold and sometimes my toe really is sprained, but always, I’m ultimately fine.  Better than fine.

When he touched the hard thing in my breast, he got a look in his eye I’d never seen before.  He felt it too.  It wasn’t in my imagination and it wasn’t nothing.  He then did something he can’t even do for himself–he made me promise to call a doctor.

I felt ridiculous.  I was about to tell a stranger about my itchy boob.  I empathize with the people who answer phones at doctor’s offices.  I think they maybe have the suckiest, most awkward, most infuriating job in the world.  I heard myself telling this poor lady about my itchy boob and I knew I sounded like a prank caller.  There was no way I was wasting this lady’s time telling her about my itchy boob.  I told her about the hard spot, too.  She said she’d have a nurse call me back in a few minutes.  I knew what would happen.  The lady on the other end would give the nurse the referral and they’d have a good laugh at my expense and the nurse would call me back.

Right away, the nurse sounded worried.  She said I needed to have the doctor look at it.  I agreed.  My doctor wasn’t in the office that day.  Neither was my husband’s.  I was shuffled back and forth in between departments for a few minutes.  I spent some time on hold, jamming out to smooth jazz.

It’s always the little details you want to remember, too.  I’ll always remember all the big things about my wedding day.  I’ll remember how my mother-in-law bought me a bouquet and how Ryan was dressed; but I’ll never remember the tiny details.  I won’t remember the conversations between my friends; I won’t remember the food we ate at the reception afterward.  All the little details count.  And the detail I’ll remember from that day was the smooth jazz hold music.

The nurse came back on and gave me a time and day.  I still felt silly.  I still had to pay a co-pay to have a doctor examine my itchy boob.  I’d still have to find parking; I still had stuff to do before and after my appointment, and it still took up time I could be spending in other ways.  I hate wasting time.  And moreover, I didn’t even know the doctor I was seeing, since my doctor was still unavailable.  The whole thing was annoying.

Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting to hear the words “mammogram” and “ultrasound” that day.  The prospect of a mammogram intrigued me, because I knew I was at the age when I would have to consider getting one anyway.  Might as well find out what it’s like so I know what to expect, right?  Knowledge is good.  My mammogram and ultrasound were scheduled for Friday, only a few days away.

The mammogram was as unpleasant as I figured.  The ultrasound was worse.  My mammogram technician was excruciatingly cheerful and polite.  My ultrasound technician was the model of efficiency, but had little time for chit chat.  Not that I wanted chit chat; but any kind of small talk may have helped distract me from the fact that he saw something.  I knew he saw something, and his silence shouted that it wasn’t good.

The little details.  That day’s special little detail was the pink sheet of paper they handed me on my way out of the office.  I don’t know where that pink sheet of paper is now, but I wish I could find it.  It might be the least helpful piece of paper ever, but when I was handed that sheet of paper, I think I knew.  The box for “you’re fine!” wasn’t checked; nor was the “we need more tests” box.  On my paper, at that moment, the box stating “call your doctor for follow up” was checked.  I had no freaking idea what that meant; but I knew exactly what that meant.

I needed a biopsy.

I’d heard people use the word.  I knew it involved needles and pain and probably not really good news.  The actual mechanics of a biopsy were a mystery.  And, quite frankly, they still are, because my eyes were closed for the entire thing.  As I walked in, I saw a terrifying contraption of the table next to the hospital bed where I had the procedure.  I made awkward small talk with a nurse for a few minutes while we waited for the doctor.

I pretty much instantly disliked the doctor even before I met him.  The room was freezing and I was terrified.  I needed to get this over with and he was taking his sweet time.  I was impatient.  When he did come in, he said very little, not even waiting for questions from me.

A biopsy requires local anesthetic, usually injected.  I might have been impatient, but Dr. Personality was even more impatient.  I wasn’t numb when he started the biopsy.  It was painful; more painful than anything I’d experienced in a very long time.  Everything I’d read made biopsies seem like no big deal.  This was a big deal.  It was invasive and it hurt.  It was necessary, but I felt unprepared.  I sought out information online and even that didn’t help.

I’ll probably never forget that day.  I think every detail will stick in my mind.  How after it was over, Ryan took me to get coffee.  How we got lunch.  The torrential rains that fell that day.  I may remember that day very clearly for a long, long time; maybe even more clearly than I remember my wedding or any of my kids’ births.  I felt fear and uncertainty, but on that day, I also felt very close to Ryan.  We spent the day together, hand in hand, and even on the day when I was the most unsure of my future, I also felt safe.

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19 responses to “tests

  1. Brian Sunderly

    Jen, thank you for sharing your experience. After 7 years of listening to you and Ryan, and hundreds of WWF games, I hold special place in my heart for you and your family. I will be praying for you. And… I will be sharing your story with my wife.

  2. Thank you for sharing your experiences. I know it can be tough. Keep your chin up and draw from the power of the Island (and your Transmission fan base)! We are all pulling for you!

  3. Pete from Rokford, IL

    You have all our love and support. We will keep you in our thoughts and prayers.

  4. I’ve been a listener to your podcasts for so long, I consider you a friend. Thank you for your courage to share this personal time with everyone. Such bravery is inspiring. Love, prayers and blessings from Houston.

  5. Really appreciate your courage and sharing with us, mahalo nui Jen!

  6. Aw, Jen! How scary! How crazy it must feel to have your life hijacked from where you thought you were going. I hope you are getting prompt and more sensitive treatment.

  7. Oh Jen, honey, I have tears in my eyes. I’ll write you later privately. and send u a link. Please continue the journal. I wish I had. But at the time I just wanted to forget everything.

  8. Hey Jen. First, /internet hug. I’m sorry you are going to go through this. I will certainly be following your journey & I’m glad that you are going to share the ride with us. Second, I’m horrible at talking about scary things like this because I never have the right responses. So I apologize in advance but I hope you can believe me when I say that I am here because I like you & hope very much that you are ok. Or will be ok.

    I only have 2 comments regarding your biopsy. 1) I’ve sat in on breast biopsies, & I’ve seen how the anesthetic is applied. One small prick at the start is ALL you should feel. The way this is done is the doctor makes an initial injection (you will feel a small prick) which, in seconds, numbs the area around it. The doctor then pushes the needle in just a little farther & injects a little more anesthetic, which then extends the area of numbness. This goes on until area sufficient to take the biopsy has been numbed. You should not feel any of the subsequent injections because the areas in front of them are being numbed ahead of the needle. 2) Do you HAVE to go to Kaiser?

    • I do have to go to Kaiser. Honestly, I’ve never had any problems with them before. Every doctor I’ve encountered before now has been great. Everything today went well; I think the tech might have been having a bad day or something. There’s a little bruising still.

      Thanks so much for the kind words. I hope I can get out to see you perform somewhere soon.

  9. So sorry you are having to go through this, Jen. But I know you can do it. You will be awesome. If you need any info, tweet or FB or e-mail me, and consider it done. Praying for you and the family.

  10. Jen, prayers for you as you go through this! Who were your technicians & doctors? Just asking because when I had my breast surgery many years ago, the Kaiser anesthesiologist & surgeon were IMHO rude and made me uncomfortable, but at the time I didn’t think I had a choice. I did complain about them later. My more recent surgery 2(?) years ago was much more pleasant. If not for the circumstances, I’d almost say it was fun. Almost. But I’m glad you have the support of your family to keep you strong daily as you go through this!

    • My surgeon is Dr. Yee. I haven’t met my anesthesiologist yet. I wish I could remember the name of the doctor who performed the biopsy. I was just so nervous that I barely noticed anything around me. But I’m glad to know there are channels to go through if things go badly.

  11. Jen,

    My thoughts and prayers go out to you and your family!

  12. Jen, I know you don’t know me, but I feel like I know you a little from listening to your podcasts for the last few years. Thanks so much for being willing to share your story with the world. I’ll be sending lots of prayers your way in the days and months to come.

  13. Dina from San Diego CA

    Jen, you will get through this. I have friends who have cancer and through chemotherapy and various other treatments are doing very well and continuing to live normal lives… you are fortunate to have a great support system in Ryan and your entire family 🙂

  14. Hi Jen. I was thinking of you and want you to know you are in my thoughts and prayers. I’m
    thankful for all you and Ryan do. If you ever need anything please let me know. Like if the insurance people try to give you a hard time let me know and I’ll beat them up. Not kidding. Thank you for sharing your journey.

  15. Hi Jen,
    What a shock to go through eh? Please, don’t be afraid to advocate for yourself with the docs, techs, whomever, sometimes they get caught up in the day to day “business” and forget that they are dealing with a individual who is dealing with a very scary scenario. With that said, be sure and thank the ones that are compassionate and caring as they do everything they can to help you win this battle. They will become some of your strongest allies.
    It is a battle, one that you can win. Learn all you can and help/ask to find out what all you can do to up your chances of beating cancer.

    We’re on your side, praying and cheering for your success!
    Aloha kakou,
    Kalena

  16. Pingback: On Writing « Jen's Cancer Blog

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