TRUE STORY/THE TOP SHELF
Today I Was Told I Have PTSD
Thanks to having had cancer, the gift that keeps on giving
Six years down the road. Over, really, since I was diagnosed with breast cancer in January of 2015. I was blessed in that it was caught early and eradicated.
Or, so we hope. Right, sisters?
Since then, I’ve been religious about seeing my oncologist every six months, as well as showing up for my yearly mammograms. So far, so good and I’m thankful beyond words.
Yet, as much as I talk myself up before having my tits squeezed in a vice, it never gets any easier. Not the test itself. Sure, it leaves my gazangas a bit achy as breasts weren’t meant to be served up on a plate at IHOP. But rather, it’s the emotional toll that puts me in fight or flight mode, every single year at this time.
And I came to realize that it’s not just my right breast that’s scarred, but my psyche.
Today I had my mammogram. Last night, I did everything possible to keep from thinking about it and I did a fairly good job of covering up my fear as it’s been a stressful week here at the McGuinn manse and I didn’t want to add to it.
To be clear, I’m no martyr. But, I know when to shut the fuck up and just get on with things. Staying in motion helps me, here. I work out. I clean a bathroom or two. I scoop poop out of the litter boxes.
I keep going. Because if I don’t, I’m lost. Whatever works, right, folks?
My husband offered to go with me, but, as I’ve been going solo for the last several years, I didn’t want to break my “lucky streak,” as ludicrous as that sounds. He understood.
The facility I go to is excellent. It’s the suburban location of Chicago’s Northwestern Medical Group. From the doctors to the people who check patients in, the team is outstanding. But, moreover, they’re empathetic.
I popped a Xanax before making the forty-five-minute drive to the campus’s main building where all imaging is conducted. It was obvious to me that I was getting increasingly rattled as I erroneously pulled into the lot at the Breast Center, where my oncologist’s office is, and where I had four weeks of radiation therapy after my lumpectomy.
When I got back into my car to head over to the right building this time, I could feel a shift in my breathing and knew that my natural anxiety was about to spike to treacherous heights. And the February gloom was the perfect backdrop to how I was feeling.
I tried deep breathing, even though that never works for me. But hell, any port in a storm. In, out. In, out.
It didn’t work. My heart was racing, regardless. Fuck deep breathing.
After getting through the initial check-in I settled down in the waiting room and tried to read the magazine I’d brought with me. I kept reading the same paragraph over and over while telling myself that everything was going to be fine. It’s been six years so why make myself crazy, now?
After all, I’ve had my manual exams every six months and they’ve always been normal. I held onto that thought like a lifeline as I surreptitiously watched the one other woman in the room scroll through her phone. It was obvious she wasn’t nearly as anxious as I was. Probably just there for routine screening, I figured.
Finally, I was called in and shown to a “single-serve” room adjacent to the mammography room where I changed into a gown and waited only a couple of minutes before it was my turn for the Big Squeeze.
Why are these rooms always so cold? I could feel the goosebumps rising on my bare arms, as the technician put me through my paces. Or rather, my boobs.
My right breast, the one where the cancer was, has sort of shriveled through the years and a great deal of scar tissue has built up, so it always takes a bit more pushing and pulling to get me into a position where the machine can get an accurate scan.
At this point, I was a bit calmer. “You’ve got this,” I thought. “You’ve been through worse so this is a cakewalk. Just breathe.”
So, I breathed.
My oncologist always orders diagnostic mammograms, which take a lot longer as many more pictures must be taken after lumps or abnormalities in the breast have been found. Also, I get the results immediately. There’s no stewing for days after.
Each time I’m told that if necessary, an ultrasound would be done after the mammogram.
Right breast. Push, pull, squeeze. Left breast. Push, pull, squeeze. And then back to that little room to wait.
It didn’t take long before the technician knocked on the door, stuck her head in, and told me that they needed to take more pictures.
“Hello, panic.”
She wasn’t specific as to why but just said that the radiologist is ultra-careful that way and needed a “better look at something.”
Once more, I was put through the drill.
This happened two or three more times. The technician told me that the radiologist saw “something” in my left breast and wanted to take another look.
Yet, she took additional scans of both breasts, paying special attention to my scar.
By the last go-round of picture-taking, I was in full-blown, flight mode, although I did my best to hide it.
As I waited to hear my results, I tried to brace myself for the worst but my brain wasn’t buying it.
Finally, I got the news. The scans weren’t enough. I needed an ultrasound.
Oh. My. God.
Another tech conducted the ultrasound. Also very nice. Mid-thirties, maybe. It’s hard to tell these days as half our faces are covered.
As I lay on the table, fists clenched, she asked if I wanted a blanket. I did, but stupidly declined, thinking that a “blankie” would make the outcome worse.
So, after a glob of goo was spread over my chest, the gal got to work.
The ultrasound took a long time and this woman wasn’t giving anything away. Of course, she could not, but I know every woman here understands when I say, if only these technicians could utter a barely audible, “Looks good to me.”
For some reason, even though it was my left breast that had the “something” in it that warranted a closer look, the technician spent an inordinate amount of time on my scar, during which time I was certain I would be told that the tumor came back. Or, a new one had taken up residence in my left breast.
As I lay there, my body rigid, I prayed to my dead parents, who were both diagnosed with stage four lung cancer two months before my own diagnosis.
I thought about my father, who, after I told him I had breast cancer, stroked my cheek and told me that I would be “just fine.”
How he knew this, I’ll never fathom, but I bought it, and happily.
After the technician told me that the radiologist would probably want to take a pass at the “transducer,” the wand-shaped thingy, herself, I nearly bolted off the table.
The tech finished up and left the room. Two minutes later, she and the radiologist, a petite, Indian woman came in.
I must have looked half out of my mind, because before picking up the wand, she said, “You look good.”
It was then I lost it. I’m not my nature a crier, but I broke down, completely. Sobbing. Body shaking. The whole nine yards. It had been over two hours and I felt as if my life had been handed back to me.
The radiologist grabbed my hand. The technician hugged me. And, between gasps, I apologized for losing my cool and it was then that I was told, by both women that “You have PTSD and the way you’re feeling is perfectly natural.”
Never had this occurred to me, that I may be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from having had breast cancer. And my heart ached for all the women who experience that bone-chilling fear right along with me. During mammograms or any medical tests, for that matter.
After the radiologist finished up the ultrasound, I was handed my paperwork detailing today’s test and told me that next year, my oncologist should order a screening mammogram, which is always followed by an ultrasound. It’s just part of the procedure. I guess this is a good thing.
And I have to wonder if we survivors will always be “looking over our shoulders,” fearful that one year, our luck will run out.
Starting today, I can’t. And, I won’t. I hope.
I went back to the waiting room, shed my gown, and was back in my jacket in about a minute and a half, after which the technician walked me to the exit.
She gave me a big hug before I left. I hugged her back. Hard. Covid, be damned.
And when I walked outside, the sun was out.
© Sherry McGuinn, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.
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