Part Two: A Memorable Memorial Day Weekend

Day By Day

            May 26 bedtime:  I decide to read a few Psalms aloud, followed by various verses that come to mind.  It is a powerful experience.  The words from the last piece of the Messiah come to mind: “Blessing and honor, power, and glory be unto Him . . .”  As I get ready for bed, I stop to find the album on my Kindle and hit play on the last song.  The music starts, sweeping up my soul in worship of the King.  Thank you, Jesus.

            May 27 at Bailey Medical Center:  Such a lovely waiting room!  The multi-shaded brown tiles and the soft sounds of a fountain create a peaceful atmosphere.  I leave my daughter there when I am called back to radiology for my appointment.  The mammogram technician is both friendly and professional.  She clearly knows her stuff.

            Diagnostic mammograms are quite different than the usual screening mammograms:  more pictures, more angles, harder squeezes, and impossible positions.  She patiently guides me through each step to get into the proper position.    

            “Stand up straight,” she says as she bends me forward at the waist and expertly scoops my breast over and onto the paddle.  “Relax your shoulder,” she reminds me as she guides my arm to bend up and over to grab the bar on the far side of the platform.  “Now, stay relaxed,” she repeats as she instructs me to turn my head as far as I can to the right, which makes the face guard cut into my cheek.  My neck and shoulder muscles are straining to hold the position as she operates the machine to tightly squeeze my breast.  “Keep that arm relaxed. Stay perfectly still.  Don’t breathe,” she says as she steps behind the barrier to take the picture.

            I think she takes about sixteen pictures.  All of them put intense pressure on the lump that brought me here, which is a little tender anyway.  The prize at the end is a warmed blanket wrapped around my shoulders.  Ahhhh.

            Before I am ready to give up my warm blanket, the ultrasound tech is ready for me.  Lying on my back with arm over my head, even though this is the arm that does not particularly like to go over my head since the shoulder dislocation a dozen years ago, is positively relaxing.  Just moments later, the pictures are taken, I’m calling my daughter to come back for the report, and the radiologist appears long before she can.

            I appreciate straightforwardness, and this radiologist is a master at it.  I do not quote him exactly, but here is the gist of it. “You have a cancerous mass in your right breast.  You need to schedule a biopsy with your physician as soon as possible.”  I sit quietly absorbing the impact of his words and ask a couple questions.  He leaves, I go get dressed, and my daughter arrives.  Stepping out from the curtained changing area, I say to her, “It’s cancer,” all the while feeling so bad for her because she was not expecting this.  I was, to a certain degree.

            I’m glad Dana is with me.  Even though this news is not entirely new to me after the many hours I spent googling “fixed hard lump in breast,” I’m too stunned and shaky to be driving, even though I am also calm and confident.  It is an interesting combination. 

            Once I’m home, it takes three hours of phone calls made and received to notify a few friends and arrange for a biopsy.  Because my primary care physician’s office is closed for Memorial Day weekend, I decide to call my breast surgeon of choice and make the appointment directly with her office.  Hopefully, my doctor will call to make the official referral on Tuesday.  My biopsy is scheduled for Wednesday, June 1.

            Later that evening, after hanging out with my daughter’s family, I come home.  It’s been quite a day.

May 28:  Friend Joan rides with me to pick up the radiology films at the hospital.  The beautiful 45-minute drive on a sunny day followed by lunch at a favorite restaurant is not even dimmed by the fact that we are picking up the mammogram and the sonogram at the hospital emergency room, since this is a Saturday.  I am finding already, however, that my new role is to comfort my friends.

            Once home, I carefully open the radiology folder and pull out the sonogram page.  Holding it up to the light and carefully looking at each image and all the foreign abbreviations, I quickly learn that it tells me nothing.  Well, except that the mass is in the 6 o’clock position, which I already knew.  After more googling, I realize the folder might also hold the radiologist’s report.  I look up various terms used in the report, and my brain quickly gets muddled with definitions.  The one part I understand due to my Internet education—but which I google again just to make sure—is the BI-RADs 5.

            Dining out twice in one day is rather unusual for me, but dinnertime finds me at a local Chinese buffet to celebrate my daughter’s birthday one day late.  We make a busy table with two adults and one senior (guess who the senior isJ), plus seven-year-old Benjamin, three-year-old Joelle, and ten-month-old Josiah.  Dana and Shawn are experts at managing their children in a restaurant environment.  Josiah is happy, Joelle is talkative, and Benjamin is beaming at every person who passes by our table. 

            Back at home later, I go back to my Chromebook and spend more time reviewing what I already know from earlier:  that the chance for malignancy is over 95%.  After a while, I find myself getting really, really scared and worried.  It’s past time to close the Chromebook and open my Bible.  Using the concordance, I look up various verses containing the words “fear” or “trust.”  Those word start their calming effect on my soul.  Pretty soon, I find myself not only cleaning the bathroom (which I have successfully put off for more than a week now) but also singing a simple praise tune that gets made up as I sing, along with lyrics that spontaneously rise up. 

            I’m feeling a lot better by the time I get ready for bed.  Sitting down on the edge of my bed and holding my pillow close, I start to pray.  “Thank You, Thank You,” are the words that spill out and continue to spill out even as I weep, wrapped up in God’s love.  After drying my tears, which have refreshed me, I select the Chris Rice album on my Kindle that I have not listened to much lately.  The first hymn, “It Is Well With My Soul,” washes over me, lifting my heart in holy praise as I settle in for the night.

May 29:  During prayer request time in Sunday worship, I praise God for the peace he is giving me and announce the cancer, asking for prayers.  My heart is singing.  After the service during our fellowship time, I have the opportunity to share last night’s experience with various people.  This is what I’ve been praying for:  that God will use my circumstances to glorify Him.

            Admittedly, not every moment of the day is so full of joy and peace.  But even when I find myself pondering the many possibilities that lie ahead, there is very little fear.  True, I am not looking forward to cancer treatments.  I want to live to see my grandchildren grow up, yet the thought of being with Jesus is sweet as well.  I am happy to be in His care.