What a difference twenty years makes.
Way back when, I had two lumpectomies, both in my right breast, to remove masses the size of a dime found the old-fashioned way by exam and by mammogram. Blessedly they were both benign, though I was terrified until I knew that for certain, and I have spent the last twenty years following the recommended guidelines for a yearly screening and monthly self-exam, each one ending with the proverbial “all clear” notification.
Two weeks ago, however, my yearly mammogram – for the first time a digital version—showed two “mildly suspicious” masses, but unlike a score of years ago, these masses were microscopic. No lumps, nothing to feel, and nothing to see on the old film version of mammography.
Microscopic. We’re talking cells here, not palpable lumps.
Back then, there was only “breast cancer.” Now there are four known types of breast cancer, each with its own character and potential outcomes. If my suspicious mass of calcifications turns out to be cancer, it will be the one called DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ) which is practicably 100% curable and most often does NOT require radiation or chemotherapy to make it so, just a wee bit of surgery to remove the offending cells.
100% curable.
Back then, I was sent by the radiologist to a general surgeon for his treatment suggestions; this time I was directed by my gynecologist to a surgical oncologist, a woman who only treats breast cancer or other breast diseases. She practices medicine in a building that has an entire radiology floor dedicated to breasts. Located at Port Warwick, Newport News, The Dorothy G. Hoefer Comprehensive Breast Center opened last year, and that’s all they do all day every day is go after breast cancer with focus, clarity, and state-of-the-art imaging technology that should be the envy of all other medical facilities.
What a difference twenty years makes, indeed --- twenty years and billions of dollars in research monies directed at the second largest cancer killer in the USA.
I admit that in the past few years the ubiquitous Pink Ribbons have had me rolling my eyes. The PR campaign for breast cancer awareness and research was tiresome, in my old opinion. Pink Ribbons on quilting fabric, on t-shirts, on mugs, on calendars, on bumpers, even on my New Balance walking shoes, purchased not for the pink ribbon, but because they fit. Give it a rest already, I used to think.
No more. I am a first-hand beneficiary of all those pink ribbons and the research monies they bring in.
100% curable.
Is it disconcerting once again, after twenty years of clear sailing, with no family history of cancer at all nor any other risk factors in play, to be sitting here thinking I may have breast cancer? You bet. But the facts are on my side, even if the diagnosis may not be what any woman wants to hear.
100% curable.
Do I think I have cancer? Given the fact that the two lumpectomies and this new mass are all in the same place in the same breast and new technology has made it easier to see what may have been there for twenty years, I’m leaning toward “no.” Another fact has me more than optimistic as well: 70% of all biopsies performed under the conditions I now have in my medical chart prove to be nothing. This time, I’m not terrified, just concerned and anxious, both reasonable reactions to a pending biopsy.
Is it also disconcerting to be once again shrugging off a rumpled cotton hospital gown in front of a long line of medical professionals who need to see what I got? Sure. But I decided at the last diagnostic session when yet three more individuals came through to assess my situation that I will pretend to be French. For French women, it doesn’t matter who sees the girls or comments on them or pokes them. There is value in that attitude, and I will use it to my best advantage as I travel the road laid out before me, come what may.
So French I will be, in my head at least. Perhaps wearing a pink ribbon, and maybe, just maybe feeling the slightest bit guilty for having pooh-poohed them for so long. C’est vrai.
But mark my words, I shall be sporting a “Save the ta-tas” sticker on my car. Visit www.savethetatas.com to buy your own and help contribute to breast cancer research by doing so. I promise I will be glad you did.
And after you’ve made your appointment for your own digital mammogram, check out the American Cancer Society website (www.cancer.org) for the latest information on breast cancer and the path to victory over all forms. Knowledge is power; vigilance and proper care will save more than a few ta-tas and, more importantly, lives.
So we’ll see what I’ll be writing about twenty years from now; perhaps by then ALL forms of breast cancer will be 100% curable.
Karla K. Bruno is the author of Mischiefs and Miseries: a novel of Jamestown 1607. www.kkbruno.com. Her recent biopsies were indeed negative.