As cancer-screening techniques become ever more advanced and more commonplace, we need to become more robust in our ability to withstand the difficult limbo that is awaiting results that have a critical impact on our futures. In a world where information is so readily available, and we often feel the need to control all around us, waiting for a diagnosis over which we have absolutely no control can feel somewhat tortuous.
Benign. Six beautiful letters. Can I say them again? Benign. I heard them today. Eventually. It is 26 days since I found the lump. One mammogram. One ultrasound. One biopsy. Four doctors. And, countless catastrophic thoughts later, that wonderful word finally came. Benign. How lucky am I? To have finally reached the end of what sometimes seemed like an endless road.
Twenty-six days. It’s nothing. Not even four weeks. And yet that lump was the first thing that entered my head when I opened my eyes every morning, and the thing I struggled to put out of my head last thing every night. They were longer days than normal. Longer weeks. Days were methodically counted off before the next round of medics, tests and scans loomed on the horizon.
I regularly had to give myself a good talking-to about how worrying wouldn’t solve anything, and how statistically it was unlikely to be anything sinister. My own story went something like this.
The lump
Lump found. Lump denied. Lump ignored. Lump re-examined. And again. Poked. Prodded. Groped. Squished. Examined from a different angle. Was it always like that? Is it any different? Maybe that’s what they all feel like? Is mine any different? Probably not. Of course not. Nothing to worry about. Move on, Claire. You’re being neurotic.
Until half an hour later, when the same thought recirculates, and follows you around like a shadow. The doubt is always at the back of your mind. Festering.
Maybe I should get it checked? Immediately, there’s an instinctive fear so deep-rooted, so ingrained, you’re not even conscious of it. So you bury it again, and hope it goes away. Because a very large part of you Does Not Want to Know. And the fear the C word evokes in you is like nothing you have encountered before.
It’s the kind of fear that seeps into your bones and recalibrates your brain and the whole manner in which you view the world around you. It oozes out your pores and is ever present in everything you do. It’s the kind of emotion you practically metabolise. It fuels you. It runs through your veins and permeates every corner of your body. It is with you day and night, however distant, however slight.
However much you try to distract, and convince, and rationalise it away, it’s a constant. An irritant at best. A living nightmare at worst. It depends on how you manage to cope with it yourself. And on that front, I doubt I fared particularly well.
And even as you make that first appointment with your GP, time seems to go into slow motion. Because in actually taking that first reticent step, you are implicitly recognising that something might be in there. And your brain moves on, just an iota. Reluctantly. Towards an uncomfortable fact. That there is a lump there. And that you need to do something about it.
You shoot the breeze with her for a while before coming around to the reason you are here. You play it down. It’s nothing. Really. It’s probably normal, I say. “Sure how am I supposed to know what’s normal? Sure the only pair I’ve ever felt are my own.” Maybe I can joke my way out of this situation. Play the Funny Girl. Ha ha. All very casual. Nothing to worry about. No big deal. This little lump.
Referral she says. Oh Jesus, really? And here was me thinking it was all in me own head. Calm, Claire. Calm. It's nothing. It will be fine. It will be fine. Stop thinking and get on with life. It will be fine. Keep going. One foot in front of the other. Resist the urge to see what Dr Google has to say on the matter. And put your bra on lockdown because, rest assured, there's no answers to be found in there for you.
Breast clinic
Eight days later I am waiting in the breast clinic. Perfectly calm on the outside. Sick to the core on the inside.
Lie back, please. Arms above your head. Keep it light, Claire. “It’s very busy out there this morning for you, Doctor.” It’s nothing. You’re just one of hundreds with the same concern.
Poke. Prod. “Worrying lump.” Did I hear that right? Did he actually just say that? Can I wake up now please? He draws on my chest with a marker. Marks out the area of suspicion. I don’t want to know. Look away and pretend this isn’t happening. All tests will be done today. I won’t be going home today until I know. And there and then my world splits into the one where I skip home reassured, and the one where I potentially don’t.
“Should I call my husband?” I ask. And even as the question marches out of my mouth, I can’t work out if I am off base or on the money. From the consultant’s reaction, I gauge that I sit somewhere uncomfortably in between.
I go into autopilot. I follow directions like an obedient child. Here’s your chart. Take this corridor. Then that one. Put on the gown. Lean into the machine. Cold metal. Try to relax. Now the other side. Feeling exposed on so many levels I didn’t even realise existed. Like a rag doll, I’ve gone limp. Is it shock?
I’m manoeuvred around, as if my destiny is beyond me now. It’s down to the machines. Whatever they say will be my new reality. It’s beyond my control. What will be will be. This life. Or that. It’s all down to the machines.
And I wait with my sister in a cubicle with the other women. The women on the “fast-track” who get singled out to skip the queues, and be first at the machines. The women who can’t afford to wait.
The dice is rolled, and today some of us will go home to our families, and some of us won’t. And I wonder what kind of God makes those kinds of decisions, and how arbitrary and unfair it all is. And I suddenly remember my own mother, and I feel physically sick at the thought. Because, for the very first time, I have some insight into what she must have gone through when she was diagnosed with cancer nine years earlier.
That cancer gnawed away at her slowly, from the inside out, for 18 months until there was nothing left.
We try to joke and laugh about it on the “fast-track”, because what else can you do? We’re in this together. And we all know it. Some show it more than others. Some pretend to read, and then admit they’ve read page 71 five times. I play the comedian, because that is what I do. Some can’t even talk. We’re all in it together. Until some us get a reprieve. And some of us don’t.
The odds
I feel my mother beside me, in that tiny cubicle. I really do. And I know she will be there for me, no matter what. The doctor said 70/30. I’ll take those odds. My mother will come good for me. She will. She’s in my corner. Even if I can’t see her. She’ll rig the results. She’ll give me a pass. She’s “in” with the Man Upstairs. Probably having tea with him now. Ha ha. Must keep joking. Anything to avoid the elephant in the room.
Another image. This time, it’s the ultrasound. “Normal Breast Tissue.” That’s definitely what she said, isn’t it? And I exhale for the first time in three hours, and come back up for air. I start to re-emerge from the tunnel I went into when “worrying” and “not going home” was mentioned. I see a door in the distance, out of this parallel universe I’m in and back to normality. And I start to believe that It Will Be Okay. It will. Really.
“You’re in the clear.” There. It’s official. The doctor’s saying it.
But, actually, no, we want to see you back in six weeks’ time. “Try not to worry.” And the more that word gets mentioned, the more anxious my poor frazzled brain becomes.
But why, I object. I’m in the clear. That’s what I was just told. I want to go back to my old life and forget I ever set foot in this place. Why the doubt? Is there something in there? Why don’t you know? Why? Why? Why? My brain demands answers I know aren’t in anyone’s grasp as yet. I crave certainty. I crave relief. I crave another appointment that isn’t until 2017. And it hasn’t yet come.
Second opinion. Biopsy needed. I agree. Reluctantly. Family history, and all that. I welcome the finality it will bring. And am simultaneously terrified by the prospect of a definitive answer.
So on a sunny Thursday evening, I walk myself into a hospital to have a test I don’t necessarily have to have. Because I need to know. I can’t live with the doubt. And if there is a battle to be had, I want a head start. I want to set the stakes. I want to make the first move. I want to be ahead. I want to tackle this bastard head on. Not weeks later. Bring it on. I can take it. I’ll give it my best shot. Sooner, rather than later.
Back to the comedian. Jokey Jokey. “Any Derek Sheppards in this place?” Ha ha. And, as the needles go in, “I’ll do anything to avoid bedtime with the kids.” Ha ha. Clak. Clak. The machine works its magic and tiny pieces of me are extracted. To go under some microscope somewhere where some person I have never met will know my fate before I do, and will know whether my life will continue as before or take a very different path. Quick, Claire. Back to jokey, jokey. This is just to be sure to be sure. Meaningless. A formality. Nothing to worry about.
And the kindness and gentleness and sensitivity in that room is a worthy opponent of the fear I feel somewhere deep inside my belly.
A seven-day wait. I can cope with that. At least then I’ll know. No more fear. Life can move on. Beautiful, magnificent life. Which until now I took for granted. This is a second chance to be grateful for my good health and to look after it. So long as it’s clear. Please God, make it be clear.
Counting the days
Days one, two, three, four and five pass. Most days good. Some hours bad. Some hours scared. Overwhelmed. Don’t think, Claire. Don’t bloody think. Put on another wash. Clean out the fridge. Put on the radio. Do. Not. Think.
Eventually it finally comes. Judgment day. The day I will finally know for sure, one way or the other. And I wonder idly to myself whether, if it’s bad news, I will actually manage to walk out of the room, or will I end up a blithering mess on the floor. Will l fall apart spectacularly? Or will I be fine?
And then the words finally come. Benign. Those sweet, sweet words of relief and redemption.
I want to shout it from the rooftops and share my good news with taxi drivers, and shop assistants, and colleagues I don’t know from Adam. Never has one word carried such significance for me. Carried such relief and joy and magnificence. Never have I felt so grateful to the world at large for just allowing the status quo to be maintained.
And I want to somehow reach out to my buddies back in that waiting room. Because they are still there. They didn’t get a reprieve. They’re still sitting in there, wearing those blue gowns. I want to somehow touch their lives. Somehow help them down the road they were given. But I know I can’t. Because if I was them, I’d be the last person in the world they’d want to see. I got away. I dodged the bullet. God knows why. And they didn’t.
And I will never forget the face of my buddy who was less fortunate. I will never forget her story as she faced into battle for the second time. And I think she is probably the most inspirational person I have ever met. I only wish I could tell her that. To face it once would have taken more than I had to give. To face it twice would be unthinkable. So my thoughts are with you, brave Wicklow woman. If you’re out there, you are my hero. You are a woman and a half. My admiration for you knows no bounds. Your children will always know, no matter what, that their mammy is the bravest mammy on earth.
I only wish I’d had the guts to tell you that in person. Instead of wringing my hands and looking at the floor and wondering to myself how you were even still standing. I was in awe of you. Dumbstruck by your resilience.
Your stoicism left me speechless and feeling inadequate, a shadow of the person you clearly are. Best of luck, brave lady. You are a legend. And a formidable opponent of any adversary.
[ breastcancerireland.com/greatpinkrun/Opens in new window ]