The day of my mammogram was one of the longest and most terrifying days of my life.
It was the first mammogram I’d ever had. Routine screening mammograms generally begin at age 40 for women at average risk, but because I’d discovered the lump and dimpling in my breast, my care team scheduled me for diagnostic imaging.
I remember the sick feeling I had as I sat in the breast imaging waiting room in my hospital gown. I also remember the extreme guilt I felt for not telling my mom where I was or what was going on. My mom is one of my best friends and I normally tell her everything.
But she and my Dad were only a few days into a cross-country road trip, and I didn’t want to ruin their time – especially if everything ended up being fine.
Enter Morgan Freeman voice: “Everything was in fact, not fine.”
When my name was called and the technician brought me into the imaging room, I started to cry (the first of many times throughout my journey that this would happen). I felt embarrassed, but she was incredibly comforting and reassuring as she led me to the mammogram machine, telling me that everything was going to be okay.
But the moment I was scanned, I could sense the shift in her demeanor.
She became very quiet. The reassurance stopped.
She directed me back to the waiting room to be called for an ultrasound.
The ultrasound was even more unsettling. As I lay there, once again failing to fight back tears, I found myself hyper-focused on every detail of the procedure, desperate for any clues I could piece together.
I didn’t miss the subtle change in my technician’s facial expression from calm to concerned, or her shift from peppy to serious. I could feel my anxiety rising with each click of her computer mouse as she honed in and took measurements.
But the moment I knew something was very wrong was when she stepped away and brought another technician into the room who she said was in training.
I saw the look of concern on the other tech’s face as she examined the real-time image on the screen.
And then the questions began.
“When did you first notice the lump?”
“Do you have any history of breast cancer in your family?”
“How old were you when you got your first period?”
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
“Have you ever taken oral contraceptives, and if so, for how long?”
The questions seemed endless and I felt like I was hardly present as I nervously responded to each one.
All I wanted to do was run.
I was then informed that the radiologist would need to review the imaging but had just stepped away to lunch. I had the option of waiting until she returned, or going home and waiting for a call.
I desperately wanted answers, so I returned to the waiting room for what felt like the longest wait of my life.
The women sitting around me were casually chatting and joking with each other. I didn’t have it in me to engage in their banter. I was too busy trying to control my breathing because I was on the verge of a full-on panic attack.
There was something deeply infuriating about hearing their laughter while at the same time trying to manage the state of distress I was in – though, of course, I couldn’t fault them for that.
I remember staring at a sign in that waiting room that said
“You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.”
And thinking:
“Nope, I could never be that strong.”
One by one each woman around me received a paper with her preliminary results. I watched the relief on their faces as they walked out the door and I silently prayed I would have the same experience.
A couple of hours went by and I was finally handed a paper and told to have a good day.
Thank God.
An immediate wave of relief washed over me.
But as my eyes scanned the page for my result, I couldn’t find one.
I looked up at the nurse in panic.
“Wait, I don’t see a result. What does this mean?”
She examined the paper and then her eyes widened.
“Oh, wait, oh…go ahead and change back into your regular clothes,” she said.
“The doctor wants to talk to you.”
My heart stopped.
It felt like an out-of-body experience. My legs were walking me back to the changing room but it felt like I was no longer controlling my own body.
A few minutes later, as I was getting changed, there was a knock on the changing room door.
“Don’t change just yet, Kimberly. The doctor wants to run more tests on the other breast.”
I froze.
Every time I felt like I couldn’t possibly reach a new level of anxiety, something would happen to raise the bar higher. Was there a limit?
Back to the waiting room I went.
More tears. More breast imaging.
And then more scary words:
“Let’s just take a few more images. The doctor would like us to get some images of your lungs as well.”
I didn’t understand why they needed images of my lungs, but hearing that only made me more frightened.
Eventually, I was finally able to change into my regular clothes. And then came more waiting.
As I sat in the waiting room, approaching my fourth hour there, the anxiety became so overwhelming that I finally went looking for a nurse.
“Do you know how much longer it will be to speak with the doctor? Please, my anxiety is through the roof right now, please help me speak to someone,” I pleaded.
Thankfully, she walked me over to the radiologist’s office.
The walk there felt like an eternity. The walls felt like they were closing in on me with every step.
The radiologist met me in her office and I braced myself to hear the words:
You have cancer.
Thankfully, I didn’t.
At least, not yet.
She let me know that she would like to biopsy the lesion. She explained that when she sees a benign fibrocystic lesion, she likes to see it round and symmetrical. Mine was not, which made it more concerning.
She had also found some calcifications in my other breast that we would need to keep an eye on. If they found anything wrong in the breast they were going to biopsy, she said they might want to biopsy the other breast as well to make sure there isn’t something more sinister going on.
I asked if it would be possible to have the biopsy that same day, but they unfortunately didn’t have any openings.
Thankfully, she knew how anxious I was about it and was able to fit me in for it the next day.
More waiting.
A quick note: Every breast imaging experience is different. The details I’ve shared here, including the questions I was asked, additional images being taken, and technicians consulting with one another, were part of my individual experience and aren’t, by themselves, signs that someone has breast cancer.