into my 20's
As I write this, I am in a great deal of pain. Each day, the nerves that were severed heal more and more. As nerves heal, pain becomes more intense. Today has been difficult. It’s been exactly 2 weeks since my surgery. I still can’t stand straight, dry my hair, reach above shoulder height, or walk more than ten feet without getting winded. I know I’ve said it before, but I truly believe that you cannot understand unless you face the situation. Being positive is difficult when every day is an exhausting venture. I’m trying. This blog is not only a narrative or (hopefully) eventually a resource for those looking for some insight or idea of what to expect; it is how I can achieve any sort of pause. If I don’t write, I don’t sleep. The thoughts, images, and what-ifs don’t silence themselves. I have to release my spate.
When I got into my 20's, I started to see an OBGYN as young women do. After learning my family history, the nurse practitioner referred me to genetic counseling.
I did not go.
Over the years, my doctors told me repeatedly to have genetic testing done. I would agree, they would refer me, and I would never follow through with scheduling the appointment. At this point, I had convinced myself that I would not have children nor pursue any sort of genetic counseling because I was sure of the end result. I told myself that I would not have kids because of the emotional toll that losing my Mother had taken on me. I was certain that I wouldn't live long and refused to put a child through what my brothers and I had experienced.
Because of my history, I began having mammograms at 25. Mammograms are uncomfortable and painful. When arriving for my first, I'll never forget the face of the nurse at the counter. She asked me more than once if I was sure I was scheduled to have a mammogram. Typically, women don't have their first mammograms until ages 45-50.
I went in for the appointment and remembered being terrified of this huge machine that smashed and pinched and seemed almost archaic. I remember crying because I was scared and in pain.
After this appointment, I received a phone call that my results were unclear. I needed another ultrasound. This was it. This was the phone call where I heard the whispers of cancer floating in the background. Again, I remember crying. Breaking down and sobbing. I scheduled the ultrasound.
A breast ultrasound is a lot like a pregnancy ultrasound. They use the same gel and have those little blips and Rorschachts images on the screen. It always looks bad. It always looks alien. The nurses click and take images. They make little murmurs and movements, but they don't say anything about what they see. It's a vulnerable position and there are no answers until the doctor arrives.
The doctor walks in, reviews the images, takes a few more, and then explains. In my case after so much silence, the response has always been, "Everything looks clear. You'll need to come in once a year for an ultrasound."
Then I would walk out the door, past the waiting room of much older women, collapse into my car, and sob. This became a pattern. Every year, a mammogram, an unclear image, intense panic, an ultrasound, an all-clear and reminder of the following year's appointment.
