Breast MRI = Alien Spa Day

Medical procedures are unpleasant. Fact.

People who love you will try to tell what to expect so you won't be scared or shocked. The Monday after my diagnosis I had to have a breast MRI. Here's what people told me:
"You're going to be face down on a hard uncomfortable table with your breasts in these holes. It's the worst."
"It's going to be loud and uncomfortable."
"It's very claustrophobic. Don't open your eyes."
"It takes 45 minutes and you can't move."
"Take 2 Xanax before you go."

Here's how it really was...

I took 1 Xanax before I went.

We arrived at Diagnostic Centers of America, which is decorated like a luxurious spa with waterfalls, TVs playing HGTV, and cloth robes in pretty colors. I sat down to fill out forms. It was the first time in my life that I wrote "breast cancer" in my medical history. Up to this point I've never had anything to report except my allergy to penicillin.

The Xanax picked the perfect moment to take effect. It descended upon me as a cloud of shimmering mist, settling into the senses, providing a buffer between me and this new world that I should be so afraid of. I began to smile, just a little. It just didn't matter anymore.

I was brought into a small room where I changed into a blue robe and was set up with an IV where they would later inject the contrast. Needles. I hate needles. That was the worst part.

They walked me to the MRI room. The woman opened a huge door that looked like the entrance to a bank vault. That's when I entered the space ship. The room glowed with a pale blue light that washed over the sterile, shiny machine that took residence in the center of the room.

I opened the front of my robe as I was helped onto a table. Not a hard, uncomfortable table, a luxurious massage table. There were pillows around the three holes (face and boobs) and another pillow that was positioned under my legs to ensure optimal comfort levels while I had my massage. I was covered with a plush blanket and given some headphones. I selected 90s music.

Then the ride started. I flew forward, spinning through space (though I was later told the motion was simply up and forward). The music began. "Killing Me Softly"... really? The aliens were having a rock concert and began to play their loud  music, which drowned out my music. All I could hear was the bass, but I actually knew the song, "I Believe in a Thing Called Love". Much better.

The noise stopped and I could hear the song in the headphones again, "The Sweater Song". I was suddenly transported through time, watching my cousins sing the song together and dance around the living room.

The rock concert began again. The aliens really love loud music. Good thing I do too. I allowed myself to relax into the table while my spa treatment continued.  I had a cool arm infusion. Some more music and then it was over. Twenty minutes.

Aliens probably shouldn't run spas.

They wrapped up my arm where the needle was, I got dressed, then Brian and my two moms (mine and his) took me out for lunch. I had a giant chocolate muffin. Giant chocolate muffins are good for the soul.

Friday the 13th

I was driving home from work, singing along to the radio and enjoying the sunshine. I suddenly felt a tenderness under the wire of my bra and immediately groped for the source of the discomfort. A lump. My face flushed with heat at the recognition of the intruder. I got home and stripped off my clothes, panicking as I examined the lump and the rest of my breasts. Like any millennial with a smart phone, I began to Google my symptoms: painful, palpable, oval. I didn't allow myself to catastrophize. It was probably nothing... maybe a fibroadenoma. I reassured myself with the facts, with the likelihood that it was nothing and began to relax.

My boyfriend, Brian was not so relaxed. I was going to the doctor immediately, whether I liked it or not. My tumor is one sneaky little devil. So inconspicuous with it's fibroadenoma disguise. It fooled many people until the day came when it would no longer be able to hide behind ultrasound images.

Friday the 13th was biopsy day. I'm not superstitious (I have a black cat), but I couldn't help but feel that this was a bad omen. The fear of being awake during an invasive procedure was scarier than the biopsy itself. Fifteen minutes and done. The dentist is worse.

I was scheduled to go back to the office and hear the results on the following Wednesday. Brian was with me. I don't remember anything that was said past, "Unfortunately, it's cancer." All I remember is the physical response that happens to the body when you hear bad news. I saw through what felt like a dolly zoom in a movie. My whole body flushed with heat. My ears got hot and the doctor began to sound so far away. My mouth became dry. Then she stopped talking and looked at me. No one said a word for what felt like 5 minutes. "I don't know what to say," I managed to squeak out. "I don't think there's anything to say. You're just too young for this," the doctor replied.

That's when the fog rolled in. After that there was no hunger. No joy. No desire.
Just fear.

Is this going to kill me?

Being 29, I have seen just about every Nicholas Sparks movie that's been made. Nicholas Sparks teaches us that young, good people who get cancer always die. I hate Nicholas Sparks.

Now that I know that my cancer is stage 1, estrogen and progesterone positive, HER2 negative, grade II, and I have a clean MRI in the rest of my breasts, my outlook is no longer bleak.

I AM NOT A SAD CANCER MOVIE.
I am not cancer.
It's my boob, not me.
I will not be defined by this.