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Discovery of lump in breast causes fear
By Regina Brett
POSTED: 09:58 a.m. EDT, Jun 05, 2008
This column was first published Sunday, March 8, 1998
It happened as casually as running your hand across a bed to smooth a sheet.
For years I'd read the warnings and heard the cautions: Do a monthly breast self-examination.
Like most women, I did it on a "sort of" basis. Every few months I'd do a quick feel, but not on a regular basis and never as thoroughly as the doctors urge.
Women don't want to go searching for trouble. Subconsciously, we believe if we look for it, we'll find it. So we don't look.
All through our lives, every doctor we see asks, "Do you examine your breasts regularly?" Of course we lie and mumble yes. Then we do it for a few months and forget about it.
It scares us to look. It's like coming home from work and looking in your bedroom closet for a murderer. To look is unsettling. It creates fear. So we don't look.
We don't stop and think that it isn't cancer in the breast that kills 45,000 women a year. It's the cancer that leaves the breast that kills them.
We don't realize that 75 percent of all malignant lumps are found by women examining their own breasts, not by mammograms and doctors.
I wasn't thinking about breast cancer on that night in December as I lay in bed and casually ran the pads of my fingers in a circle around my breast. My fingers came to a halt when they felt a hardness that seemed unfamiliar.
It wasn't what you'd call a lump, just a spot that felt harder than the rest. The way muscle feels more solid than fat. It seemed too small to be something, yet too big to be nothing.
I asked my husband to touch it. "Hmmm. It's hard, but it doesn't feel like a lump," he said.
No big deal, I told myself. I'll have it checked out at my next doctor's appointment a few weeks later.
Day after day, I tried to ignore the spot, but my fingers would go back to see whether it had gone away. It hadn't. It seemed to be growing.
The day of the doctor's appointment, I was tempted not to mention it. Maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill, so to speak. Maybe it would go away if I just stopped thinking about it. Maybe I was afraid of the truth.
The doctor asked whether I had any concerns. "Well, there's this spot that feels hard here," I said casually.
She pressed her fingers there and proclaimed, "Yes, you have a lump."
That's when I got another lump. In my throat.
She set a mammogram appointment for the next day. I wasn't worried until a nurse said goodbye and added, "I'll pray for you."
Pray for me?
I sat in the car and cried. It can't be a lump. Not a real lump. Instantly, I imagined the worst: cancer, losing my hair, my breast, my strength, my health. I looked in the rearview mirror and pulled my hair back. No, I can't be on the verge of cancer. I'd look hideous bald.
Waiting for the mammogram verdict drove me mad. I couldn't eat or sleep. I'd call for the results, get put on hold for 20 minutes, then find out they weren't in yet.
The next call, someone tells me they aren't allowed to give the results out because it's "patient information." I'm the patient, I yell. She checks. Still not in.
Next time I call, I'm put on hold and get stuck listening to recorded medical advice: "What exactly is a nervous breakdown? A nervous breakdown is mental exhaustion brought on by extreme stress. . . . " I slam down the phone.
Finally, I call and a gentle soul on the other end who has been through the same thing reads me the results: "Dense breast tissue . . . nothing suspicious . . . no malignancy."
I'm relieved. My stomach drops back to its normal position. I'm giddy. Wow. What a relief. The next day, I call my doctor just to confirm there's nothing else to do. She says she wants to be sure and sends me to a surgeon to look at it.
It's there I discover mammograms aren't always correct.
This column was first published Sunday, March 8, 1998
It happened as casually as running your hand across a bed to smooth a sheet.
For years I'd read the warnings and heard the cautions: Do a monthly breast self-examination.
Like most women, I did it on a "sort of" basis. Every few months I'd do a quick feel, but not on a regular basis and never as thoroughly as the doctors urge.
Women don't want to go searching for trouble. Subconsciously, we believe if we look for it, we'll find it. So we don't look.
All through our lives, every doctor we see asks, "Do you examine your breasts regularly?" Of course we lie and mumble yes. Then we do it for a few months and forget about it.
It scares us to look. It's like coming home from work and looking in your bedroom closet for a murderer. To look is unsettling. It creates fear. So we don't look.
We don't stop and think that it isn't cancer in the breast that kills 45,000 women a year. It's the cancer that leaves the breast that kills them.
We don't realize that 75 percent of all malignant lumps are found by women examining their own breasts, not by mammograms and doctors.
I wasn't thinking about breast cancer on that night in December as I lay in bed and casually ran the pads of my fingers in a circle around my breast. My fingers came to a halt when they felt a hardness that seemed unfamiliar.
It wasn't what you'd call a lump, just a spot that felt harder than the rest. The way muscle feels more solid than fat. It seemed too small to be something, yet too big to be nothing.
I asked my husband to touch it. "Hmmm. It's hard, but it doesn't feel like a lump," he said.
No big deal, I told myself. I'll have it checked out at my next doctor's appointment a few weeks later.
Day after day, I tried to ignore the spot, but my fingers would go back to see whether it had gone away. It hadn't. It seemed to be growing.
The day of the doctor's appointment, I was tempted not to mention it. Maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill, so to speak. Maybe it would go away if I just stopped thinking about it. Maybe I was afraid of the truth.
The doctor asked whether I had any concerns. "Well, there's this spot that feels hard here," I said casually.
She pressed her fingers there and proclaimed, "Yes, you have a lump."
That's when I got another lump. In my throat.
She set a mammogram appointment for the next day. I wasn't worried until a nurse said goodbye and added, "I'll pray for you."
Pray for me?
I sat in the car and cried. It can't be a lump. Not a real lump. Instantly, I imagined the worst: cancer, losing my hair, my breast, my strength, my health. I looked in the rearview mirror and pulled my hair back. No, I can't be on the verge of cancer. I'd look hideous bald.
Waiting for the mammogram verdict drove me mad. I couldn't eat or sleep. I'd call for the results, get put on hold for 20 minutes, then find out they weren't in yet.
The next call, someone tells me they aren't allowed to give the results out because it's "patient information." I'm the patient, I yell. She checks. Still not in.
Next time I call, I'm put on hold and get stuck listening to recorded medical advice: "What exactly is a nervous breakdown? A nervous breakdown is mental exhaustion brought on by extreme stress. . . . " I slam down the phone.
Finally, I call and a gentle soul on the other end who has been through the same thing reads me the results: "Dense breast tissue . . . nothing suspicious . . . no malignancy."
I'm relieved. My stomach drops back to its normal position. I'm giddy. Wow. What a relief. The next day, I call my doctor just to confirm there's nothing else to do. She says she wants to be sure and sends me to a surgeon to look at it.
It's there I discover mammograms aren't always correct.
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