It was the worst of times...it was the breast of times...
If you are still with me (and I believe one or two of you are...Hi, Sabrina!), then you know that, in the midst of my heroically battling the flu, ("Am I being dramatic?" I whispered hoarsely at my husband. "This cannot possibly be this bad. Am I just being a big baby?" "Amy," my poor husband sighed, having had to deal with my refusing to eat the toast he had just brought me because he'd neglected to cut it diagonally, "You can't even put on your pants without help right now. You are NOT being dramatic.") I received a phone call asking me to come in for some follow-up tests after my recent mammogram.
Fortunately, I suffer from Main Character Syndrome so worries about my imminent demise rarely plague me. I'm the main character...I can't possibly die (Tell that to Ned Stark...cue Game of Thrones fans nodding wisely). My current story arc had my character sadly stricken with illness yet still never more beautiful in her husband's eyes. Her senses were still sharp despite her restricted breathing and she neared paralysis due to her weakened, atrophied muscles. Her husband approached her cautiously with a cup. After a tentative sip from the flexie-straw, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is this?" she groaned, painfully...air working like ground glass upon her throat. Her caretaker avoided eye contact. "This ISN'T 7-Up," our poor main character accused. Brad shook his head sadly, his tired shoulders beaten down with guilt. "No, it's Sprite," he admitted, ashamed. Certainly my character wasn't going to have to deal with a cancer scare in the midst of such neglect.
Brad and Erin quickly made lists of a million other possible reasons that I would have received a call-back...my charming personality, naturally, at the top of each one.
Brad had diligently knocked me out with doses of NyQuil so I wasn't haunted by sleepless nights.
Of course, I didn't want to worry my family as there wasn't anything to actually be worried about (Looming word: Yet) but I also vehemently believe in the power of prayer. I believe in God's Will. Healing is ideal (but not always a part of God's plan) however, strength, confidence in God's redemptive love, peace, comfort, rest, wisdom in decision-making...those are the prayers that I offer and, in this case, needed to be willing to receive. I wanted to be a good role model and establish the pattern that, whether there is anything to worry about or not...we still share information with one another so that we can encourage and hold one another up in prayer. So, we shared this news with our daughters. They were loving, supportive, and sent inappropriate memes to make me laugh.
As the day of my appointment drew closer, my fears increased. My shallow little brain protected me in that it wasn't allowing me to see beyond the appointment in the event of bad news. In my limited vision, I either received good news and walked out, relieved or...
Except for my mother.
Brad and the flu were excellent distractions but my husband could tell when I was getting upset (I was born to play Poker). His brain had worked out ALL the contingencies the moment I had told him I needed additional tests. But he spoke only positives...except when it came to my mother. Then he spoke in reassurances. "I will call her EVERY day," he told me. "You will not have to worry about her. I'll bring her her groceries. We'll play cards. I'll eat dinner with her. You DO NOT have to worry about your mother." And I cried.
The day of my appointment arrived.
Tiny white Spring flowers...?
And then, a wake-up bunny...that immediately transported me to a memorably fun camping trip with my family.
I was beginning to feel better.
About the outcome...NOT the appointment. I was still going to have to deal with my usual anxiety issues.
They had blocked out two hours for me. Brad came in and sat with me before I was, again, wrestled into the half-robed straight-jacket and ushered into the smaller waiting room. He had brought a book to read in the van and it was comforting to know he was nearby.
I worked my way through a ka-zillion coping strategies to deal with my racing heart, pounding pulse, and heaving lungs. When the technician arrived, I just had to make the decision to be mute or cry. I chose mute. I lamented giving up yoga as I was maneuvered into multiple positions that my body mutinied. My mute strategy was working until, as we finished up, the technician kindly assured me that, if I wanted, we could have Brad come in to meet with the doctor at the end. Huh. Pretty sure we don't need the appearance of a husband for good news.
out to the van. The man hadn't budged and was just walls away from me.
Then, off to the ultra-sound.
I added reciting the Ten Commandments to my mute strategy.
Roll. Roll. Roll...went the wand.
Click. Click. Click...went the computer.
Roll...roll...roll.
Click...click...click.
F-word...f-word...f-word.
Switch to the Ten Commandments backwards.
Back to the little waiting room.
My technician came back and motioned me to follow her. Should I get Brad? Turns out...I am NOT brave at all. Can we, please, get my husband? NOT ready for this...
Smiling, she assured me (in the HALLWAY) that everything was okay. My breasts were (as I've always known) magnificent. They would appreciate seeing me again, next year, for my annual exam. Thanks for coming.
I skipped happily out to my husband who was sitting stoically in the main waiting room. His jaw immediately relaxed as I ran, grinning to him. "So you don't have to spend the rest of your life crediting Erin with saving your life?" he asked, escorting me out to the van before driving me to McDonald's for a celebratory Caramel Frappe. "Nope," I grinned, "Now I can blame her for putting me through all this unnecessary worry!"
My fingers were a blur as I prepared a text to reassure everyone. Seinfeld always comes through.
And so does God.
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