Just like Samantha on Sex and the City, my legal name is Kim. Just like Samantha, I've been thinking about getting a breast augmentation. Unlike Samantha, it wasn't a plastic surgeon that discovered the lump in my breast. It was me.
Yup, it's that kinda story. You know, the scary and preachy kind that makes you worried to keep reading because you're long overdue for a breast exam or because you know someone who has suffered from breast cancer, but with some seriously fucked up direction and the occasional Sex and the City reference.
So there I was, a Saturday night after a long day of work and rehearsal. Opting out of late-night plans and in desperate need of a shower, I finish up and apply my regular lather of lotion. I have super dry skin. This is when I notice the demon living inside my right breast.
It's there, but my breath isn't. Oh, it's still there when I run my hand over it again, hoping the first time was just a mistake. Nope, there, there it is. I don't know if I took a breath in or let one out for the entirety of my self-exam state of shock.. or even when I stepped out of the bathroom in a towel and tears and uttered the words to Marcus, the words every man longs to hear from his half naked girlfriend, "I think I found a lump in my breast." Why did I say, "I think?" I knew it was there.
That entire night consisted of my hating the fact that it was a Saturday, my poor boyfriend saying sweet but basically futile things like, "Let's not panic until we have something to panic about," and playing the worst-case-scenario in my head over and over and over again. It was awesome.. and this awesomeness continued throughout the entire weekend, save for a few hours at a friend's house on Sunday that I forced myself into. It was either that or stay home and cry/panic/cry all night.
I call a bajillion doctors' offices on Monday and finally get one that can see me on Tuesday. I still cannot pronounce her name, despite the effort I put forth while listening to the loudest second hand on the exam room clock for about 30 minutes. She's not ignorant to her difficult last name and simply refers to herself as Dr. Anna; that I can handle.
She's comforting and says silly things like, "So, you found something in your boobie?"
Yes, Dr. Anna. I found a boo-boo in my shirt and this owie is supah-sca-wy. Me sad. Me want it not to be there. Me no want to be like Nemo's mommy.
Dead. I don't want to die. I don't want this to be the beginning of the end.
Dr. Anna doesn't let me tell her where it is, she wants to find it. She gives lefty the all clear and moves over to Samantha; the new name of my right breast, duh. Ding ding ding! She found it. Oh, it's there and it's palpable, the referral form even says so.
I'm on my way for an ultrasound the very next day. As a woman who doesn't want children, this isn't a procedure I've ever thought about having. As a woman who doesn't want children in her boobs, this certainly isn't a procedure I've ever considered having on my breast. Well, it's a thing, and at 28 years old, it's safer than a mammogram.
But why are we being safe?? I have a lump in my breast and it's going to kill me.
Okay, nevermind, get the chaperone in here and tell me it's a cyst.
The chaperone is Linda and she's delightful, I think. It's hard to recall exactly what she was saying while the technician was coating me in jelly and calling the Doc in to tell me it's not a cyst. I definitely remember the word, "lobulation," and the words, "solid mass," and, "biopsy."
But I don't remember the walk upstairs to Linda's office. I think her magic just transported me there, but no, I definitely remember the pamphlets for Dealing with Breast Cancer, Wigs, Reconstructive Surgery and, well, maybe those are all I can remember.
There I was though, in her office, and watching her dial away trying to schedule a biopsy; you know, the Greek word for, "this will hurt like hell and in a few days all of your worst fears will be confirmed." I know there were comforting words being spoken. I know she was smiling and assuring me there probably wasn't anything to worry about, I know these things happened but more clear are the pink flowers everywhere, the ribbons and the fact that I was actually sitting in the office of the Navigator at the Breast Center surrounded by stories of survival; stories that should be reassuring but are merely reminding me that cancer happens here. This is where you go when you have breast cancer and this is how it begins.
Scheduling the biopsy for as soon as possible seemed like nothing short of a miracle but I'm told I should have someone drive me and I should take the day off of work.
Next week? No, she [I] can't wait that long.
Tomorrow morning? I can't get out of going to work that early.
Monday? No, I perform that night.
"Oh? What do you do?"
And with a crack in my voice, I wipe a million tears off my face and say, "comedy."
We schedule it for the following afternoon and my hero gets out of work so he can drive me home.
It is implied that every night I'm fighting tears and wondering if I should call my family, 2400 miles away, to worry them or wait until there's something to panic about, right? That's implied? Okay, good. Because keeping this light hearted is the only way to get you to keep reading.
The biopsy was physically painless and emotionally terrifying. The loud pop as the biopsy-gun rips tiny pieces of the foreign intruder out of me is the most unsettling noise I've ever heard; not because it was incredibly loud or because I wasn't warned about it but because this device was potentially taking just a fraction of the murderer out of me and not the entire thing. It's days before I get the results and I have a weekend of family in town to get me through until then.
A weekend that went better than I could have asked for. The hugs I get hurt a bit and I can't shower until my guests have already arrived, since the gauze needs to stay in place. Even as I sit here, almost exactly a week since the biopsy, steri-strips are still in place and I cannot take them off or skin could come with them. Even with all of this, the weekend was full of Vegas life; too much food, Cirque Du Soleil, trips to the desert and all the love I could ask for.
Monday morning the angel calls. It's 8am and the number is blocked. It's Linda and she tells me the results have been sent to my doctor, as she is not at liberty to give results, she suggests I call them.
Here we go.
Oh, voicemail. Okay, I'll do that.
They finally call me back. Once again I have to verify my birthday. And that's when she tells me...
"Okay, Kimberly, your results came back... they're normal. It's called a fibroadenoma; a benign tumor."
All I heard were the words, "Okay, normal, benign."
Thank you, Chelsea. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
This is something I am going to have taken out of me. This is something that has the potential to grow, maybe be tender and potentially uncomfortable.
But it's not cancer. It's not something to survive and it's not something I'll have to undergo treatment for. I won't need a wig or fund-raising campaigns and I won't need to give my family terrible news from thousands of miles away.
And without all of these terrible things, and with the jubilant tone that this blog sometimes conveys, I cannot express how long these nine days were in such a short space.
I cannot thank the staff of the Breast Center enough and I cannot tell you how good it was to have someone who let me completely fall apart almost every single night.
I can, however, look at the pictures on the wall that say, "Hope," and, "Strength," and know who they are truly meant for. I thought I was strong and this experience tested that to the fullest. Those words are for every woman who goes through what I went through but doesn't get the good news. They are for the women who wear the pink ribbon to show they don't just support the research but they are a product of its power. Hope and Strength are the words I wished I could have read more clearly while going through this. I hoped I would have been stronger and the fighters of this fight sure as fuck are.
So unlike Samantha, my tumor is benign. But much like her, this Kim came out of this a changed woman.
