When I needed a follow up to my standard mammogram, first thing that crossed my mind was, “Yay! I get to to take some more time off.” Up until that point, I hadn’t taken any time off unless I had a doctor’s appointment. A strong contrast to the days when I was a classroom teacher, which was the most stressful job I’ve ever had and needed the time off for survival, mental/physical health and the such.
With my current full-time job, which I work from home, it’s not that stressful, so my paid time off just accrues without me paying much attention to it. Celebrating time off was more at the forefront of my mind than worrying that something was wrong.
After all, many years ago, I’d had a follow up mammogram because my breasts were “fibrous,” or something like that. It’s apparently common in Black women. I figured the doctor was being cautious since I’d not had a mammogram in a long time. So long in fact, that they couldn’t even use my last one as a baseline. I had no idea that I needed one every year.
After the second mammogram, I became worried when they called me into a consultation room, asking if someone else had accompanied me to the clinic. No health care professional had ever asked me that question before.
The doctor and technician who’d conducted the mammogram explained to me that the results showed calcifications in my right breast. Showing my sheer ignorance about breast cancer, I questioned why I had any calcifications if I’d never breastfed. As a matter of fact, I’d never been pregnant.
The technician answered as if I had not just asked a stupid question, telling me that breastfeeding had nothing to do with it.
She and the doctor led me to another room where we looked at the mammogram images. Even though the images enlarged the 5mm area of my right breast where the calcifications were, they still looked like specks of dust.
As they explained the next step to me, I stared at that suspicious calcium dust with dread. If we hadn’t been in a pandemic caused by something even smaller than the specks that I saw, I would have marveled that something that couldn’t even be detected by a regular breast exam could curtail my life.
We returned to the consultation room where they explained what a stereoscopic biopsy was. I’d lie facedown on a table that had a hole in it where my breast would hang from. They’d apply a local anesthetic, followed by a series of injections of the anesthetic before the removal of the suspicious calcifications. At the end of the procedure, the doctor would leave a metallic maker just so in the future, depending on the results, they can return to the spot and retrieve the rest of the calcifications if they turned out to be cancerous.
Before sending me on my way, they assured me there was only a 20% chance that the calcifications were cancerous. Even with those odds, I don’t gamble because I see myself as having bad luck.
At that point, I moved through a fog of worry. I only told two people about my upcoming procedure: one of my sisters and a good friend. From there on out, the rest of life’s worries washed over me.
One thing that I needed after the biopsy was a tight-fitting bra, so my right breast wouldn’t move around much. Coincidentally, I’d already planned to go bra shopping with that same friend.
A lot of back and forth occurred to get the biopsy scheduled because my primary doctor’s office either left a vital part of the faxed form blank, or what was written couldn’t be clearly read, or there was a missing signature. That was cleared up after nearly a week and three attempts.
The day of my biopsy, I drove there by myself, thinking that I’d get the result before I left. That didn’t happen.
Before I talking to a technician, I checked in with the front desk. Part of the process was to pay for the procedure upfront. I’m not sure what would have happened if I couldn’t have put the charge on my credit card. Would I have been as good as dead at that moment? One thing I noticed was the increasing cost with every procedure.
The initial mammogram was 100% covered by my insurance. The follow up procedure cost $160, which was covered by my HSA card. This latest procedure cost nearly $1000. Since I’d recently used my HSA card, I barely had over $100 on it. At that point, I was still grateful that it lowered the amount going on my credit card.
As the EMT previewed the procedure, I kept thinking I couldn’t literally afford to have breast cancer. No one wants cancer, but to have it and not be able to afford the treatment…would I be yet another sick American with a gofund me page for treatment?
I tried to temper my anxiety. After all, going with the odds, I’d be in the 80% who didn’t have breast cancer. Another cheerful statistic was emblazoned on the side of the bag the tech had given me to put my clothes in: 98% survival rate for women diagnosed with early stage breast cancer by a mammogram.
There should have been an asterisk with that statistic, stating if one could afford the treatment.
If my mind was preoccupied with not being able to afford cancer treatment that vanished once the procedure began. I lay on my stomach with my exposed right breast hanging from a hole in the examination table that had been raised a few feet.
The time between the local anesthetic being applied to my breast and being pierced with a sharp object seemed like a few seconds. As a matter of fact, I’d started quietly crying before being pierced. The position I was lying in, along with my breast being held in place with vise grips was so uncomfortable, I knew the whole contraption had been designed by men.
Yet, I hadn’t screamed in pain until the piercing. From the beginning, the doctor assured me that more anesthetic was being injected. All I could feel was my breast being pinched very hard. At one point, the doctor sounded impatient, stating that noting was being done. I could have slapped him. Despite nothing being done on his part, I still felt a pinching sensation.
Once the procedure was done, I lay on my back, traumatized as the EMT applied pressure to the incision. I took deep breaths to calm myself down, while the EMT and tech talked over me about attending some event. They never specifically stated what they were talking about, but it sounded like some shopping/networking event. Whatever they were talking about, it was completely disconnected from the physical trauma I’d just experienced.
I’d planned in advance to have a mani/pedi afterwards. Fortunately, one of my favorite woman-owned nail shops was still in business. The place looked a little rundown, but considering that she was still in business, that was a miracle. She had only one woman whose nails she was putting the final touches on as I soaked my feet in the whirlpool. Soothing relief I needed after a biopsy.
A few days later, I received an email stating that my results were in. I nervously clicked on the link. Initially, I thought my phone couldn’t handle the amount of data to download the results. I raced to my laptop. Same result.
I called the clinic that performed the biopsy for the results. They informed me that I had to call my primary care physician (PCP) for the results. I called my PCP’s office. The receptionist confirmed that the test results were in, but only the PCP could go over them with me. The best I could do was leave a message. Unfortunately, I was frustrated. My parting words to the PCP front desk was, “You mean I have to wait even longer to find out whether I have breast cancer?”
I spent the weekend, trying to put breast cancer and the impending cost of breast cancer treatment out of my mind.
The following Tuesday, my sister texted me about whether I knew the results. This gave me new motivation to pick up the task again. I did the same dance I’d started on Friday. This time, I knew the name of the employee at the biopsy clinic. I left her a message, then called the PCP office. As luck would have it, I was on hold for the PCP receptionist when the biopsy clinic employee beeped in. I put the receptionist on hold.
The clinic employee apologized for the phone tag over the past couple of days. Just when I thought she was going to give me another runaround, she informed me that my results were benign.
A lightness washed over me. I thanked her, then clicked over to the PCP receptionist, telling her that I’d received my results. I thanked her and hung up.
Next call was to my sister. As we talked, I texted my friend the results. My sister and I talked for over 30 minutes as I continued to work. I was impressed how long I was able to work without having to make an outbound call. Fate was on my side. In more ways than one.
With that burden off my plate, I moved forward with my life as I’d planned to do, regardless of the results. At least this way, I didn’t have to strategize how to pay for cancer treatment.