 The letter. There it was. I've read accounts of breast cancer survivors. I've seen the drain of chemotherapy on my friends. I've studied artwork made by women who have used visual media to try to make sense of it all. Now it makes sense in ways it did not before.
"Dear Ms. Brightman, there is a place on your recent mammogram that is questionable. Please make an appointment. . . ." There it was.
As I walked into the Breast Center of the hospital complex, I felt somehow enveloped in care. Pink has never been my color. It made me shudder during my teen years. Now here I am, a woman of 55 years thinking that pink is pretty nice. The care in the eyes of the receptionist was palpable. As fearful as I was, I felt cared for. I felt like I could "let go and let them". Obviously, they have been through this sort of thing before. New patient, Scared and unsure. Let's invite her into the fold.
"Ms. Brightman? Hi. We're glad you are here so we can care for you. Have a cup of coffee while we prepare an exam room for you."
The coffee, the magazines, and the pink. I relaxed. I read an article that gave samples of what women say and think when they are first given the news. The one that struck me the most was "you are changed forever. You can never go back to the time of not knowing."
The exam showed a dark spot on my right breast. I was certain that it would be just a problem with the film. I'll do this other exam and this other imaging and it will show nothing", I thought. "This kind of thing has happened before and it always works out OK."
"Hi, Ms. Brightman? It looks like we have a spot that causes more concern for us. It is very close to the bone. We'd like you to come in for a biopsy."
"No", I thought, "This is not going according to my usual plan."
". . .you will never be able to go back to the time of not knowing."
As I was prepped for the biopsy and suffered the pain of having a needle go through my breast to the spot near the bone, I thought of how I would be with chemotherapy. I thought of my friends and how tired they were. I thought of my friends and how beautiful they were without hair. Would I be? As I laid there and thought and breathed through the pain, it happened. No matter what the result of the biopsy, I had sisters, both living and dead, that I have never met. I have sisters who, though not physically present, were holding my hand, massaging my shoulders, whispering into my ears. No matter what the result, I will never forget the feeling of lying in a crowded room when in reality there was just a huge machine, a computer, a long needle, me, and two technicians.
The results came two days later. Benign is a beautiful word. My sisters were in that crowded room with me cheered with me. The receptionist's voice cracked as she gave the news. She's done this sort of thing before. She knows how to keep me in her care.
I am still having 3-4 mammograms a year. I'm still being cared for by the pink and by the sisters who know.
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