I don't think I'm the only one who has a personal prohibition against considering myself ordinary. I mean, in my (rare) moments of clarity, I totally see it, but I—like most other people I know—carry over from childhood a certain amount of misplaced faith in the notion that even if I am not, in fact, the center of the universe, well, I really SHOULD be.
This is the sort of ludicrous idea that allows people to hope that they will win the (monetary) lottery, and—ironically enough—it is also the same ridiculousness that sways us into the cold, clammy grasp of The Dark Side when it comes to medical test results ... here, too, we are brought back to that universal-centrist world wherein All The Shit That Happens (be it Good Shit or Bad Shit) Happens To US.
But, really, even if we've stacked the odds against ourselves through poor self-care or other risk factors, basic chances are still firmly planted in the fertile soil of reality. That our imaginations are so very prolific is impressive, of course, but nevertheless, such conceit is not capable of reversing the laws of nature, even temporarily, on its own. The test, "just to make sure", is still being ordered as a
precaution, not as a foregone conclusion, and it would be perfectly reasonable to expect the results of said test to be in our favor—far more logical to conclude this, in fact, than that we are in any way, shape, or form capable surpassing millions just like us to win millions of dollars.
I fall into the typical pattern of averageness when I say very bluntly that I absolutely—beyond even the tiniest little foreshadowing of doubt—expected my test to return malignant results. In short, the week between my biopsy-scheduling and the biopsy itself was a very long week indeed.
However, time has a predictable way of rolling along regardless of what we anticipate or dread out along its hazy horizon, and so it did during this particular week as well, and soon there I was—The Exotic Neurotic supportively with me again—back in Breast Care Central (at least there's a local branch) and also pretty well terrified. Because I was rambling along about nothing at all, and despite the fact that I do that here in BlogWorld, I rarely do so in the "real" world.
Unless I'm freaking the hell out.
Anyway, after a lengthy waiting period, I was whisked away to a mammogram room, and was told by the bulky technician therein that I would be sitting down for these images. Which was fine and good, and modestly preferable to standing, though a strict and high standard of posture was enforced by the upward pull of the device.
We played one traditional—except for the sitting-down part—round of mammography, and then things got decidedly more awkward. Because after the second, very-carefully situated scan, the technician got her shot and then left me in the vise-like grip of the mammogram machine.
Having been preoccupied with making an effort at humor and keeping myself from appearing as the totally nervous wreck that I really was, I had managed to miss the importance of this little episode. And although I had confidence that time had not ACTUALLY stopped, and the technician WOULD return in relatively short order, I was simultaneously assaulted by panic, caught without a clue as to which button would release the machine's death grip on such a delicate part of my anatomy AND not knowing just when the damn door would reopen to herald the return of the technician.
Oh no she di'nt. OH YES SHE DID. She left me alone with my favorite breast in a clamp!
The perfectly logical explanation for this time-warped duration of unpleasantness was this: in order to figure out where to drill into the tissue to obtain the sample from the area of concern, the mammogram is employed, the technician must obtain a hard-copy of the image, and then the technician must utilize the numbered markings along the edges of the cut-out in the upper portion of the mammogram's clamp to mark the site at which to plumb for tissue samples. Which she did, upon her eventual return, with a black marker to make the "X" that marked the spot.
(High-tech, I tell you.)
From this inauspicious beginning, I was again escorted into the waiting area, where I pulled aside my robe to show The Exotic Neurotic my "X", appearing around about one o'clock on my breast. She seemed not especially impressed with the technique that had resulted in its demarkation, and distracted me with my copy of Monica Seles's latest book,
Getting a Grip: On My Body, My Mind, My Self, which I had purchased on a whim and then loaned to her. We were thus fairly pleasantly—though only on the surface—engaged until I was called in for the actual biopsy procedure.
The table, which had been previously described to me, appeared even less glamorous than it had sounded. But before I was dispatched to it, there were questions and forms for me to address.
Even given the seriousness of the situation, I found it difficult to pay attention. First of all, there was a glaring grammatical error in the very first paragraph of the very first form I was handed, and I disliked the way that the mapped drive on which the form was stored was printed at the bottom of the form as well. Still, to bring up the subject of why "you" was wrong in this context seemed like nitpicking, and not to mention, indicative of an attention-deficit-disordered mind. So I signed the form and nodded, and only asked one irreverent question when I was confronted with the shiny new information that a "marker" was going to be embedded in my breast at the site of the biopsy for future mammogrammic reference.
"Is that going to set off airport security?" I inquired, with all the serious aplomb of a dark-humored person who is stuck in an intensely uncomfortable situation.
Dr. Geek, who had returned for Q&A following my obedient—and bad-grammar-overlooking—sign-off of the requisite forms, seemed to take me quite seriously and produced a sample marker, which was embedded in a big chunk of clear plastic, for my edification. The marker itself was TINY. In fact, it was barely visible to my soon-to-be-bifocal-assisted gaze.
I murmured in what I hoped would be construed as a properly appreciative fashion, and returned the stylistic equivalent of a biopsy-headstone, which was really rather disgusting, in my opinion. Even if it WAS remarkably tiny.
(The short answer to my question, by the way, was "No." But I didn't get the short answer. I got to hold a paperweight!)
Eventually, it was time to proceed with the actual procedure. While the doctor scrubbed up and put on his costume—hey, if there's a mask involved, it fully qualifies as a costume in my mind—the technician helped me arrange myself on the scary table which had been the chief focus of my distractability throughout the paperwork—and paperweight—portion of the afternoon undelight. It was a barely-cushioned surface, with a gaping hole in the middle, around which the downward-inclining edging sank most ominously.
As I crawled up onto the table, I could see directly into the hole, because—far from being a light-sucking night-terror-esque void—it was filled with high-tech tools, and light. Yes, as The ListMaker and I had theorized, it looked like I was about to be hoisted up on the surgical equivalent of an autobody-shop's lift, and instead of having a utility light hooked to some portion of my soft underbelly, I would instead be illuminated by various fixtures embedded in the vicinity of the vertically-oriented mammogram device below the hole.
I tried very hard to objectify the experience, taking careful—but scientific, not emotional—note of my surroundings. Because, taken from a higher point of view (did you see what I did there? yes? a reference to the presumed lift of the gruesome surgical table? right, whatever, moving on ...), the surgical implements, processes, and methodologies involved here WERE very interesting. Imagine! The ability to zero in, without the need for a big-ass scapel or general anesthesia, on a tiny target, that, if it were to prove malignant, would surely be in the earliest stages of its attack, and would therefore be highly treatable. Really, it's marvelous to think about the screenings and options that are available today!
That everything was—in addition to being remotely fantastic—also personally terrifying was a bit of an impedance to relaxation, but once I was positioned by the technician on the table, with my poor, now-quite-suspicious breast (lightly) clamped yet again and sweating under the glare of the
interrogation surgical lighting, I was pretty much freaked clean out of my mind.
I did have another distraction, you see ... I had a migraine brewing. Given the delays that had occurred in the process, I was now brutally conscious of the error of my ways, but since caffeine HAD been the sole representative on the "forbidden" list that morning, I had blamed the earlier twinges of pain on a simple lack of coffee. However, as I lay in awkwardly-placed wait on the table for the procedure to begin, I now fully realized the stupidity of my malformed reasoning. This was, in fact, a migraine, and it was NOT HAPPY about the stress, the lights, or, indeed, the lying-upon of the stomach.
I tried to breathe slowly and evenly, and moved not a muscle otherwise. It was not difficult to remember the imperative of remaining still, as the technician found it necessary to bray out at random intervals, "HOLD AS STILL AS YOU CAN!" Despite the fact that I WAS.
With my head turned at a neck-spasming angle, I could not see the doctor, the technician, or the assistant who were now assuming their assigned positions in this heinous little dance. Lying like a limbo pole that had been damaged by tornadic forces and repaired with duct tape and baling wire, I felt like a mere accessory to the performance, rather than the star attraction. Someone—the technician, I think—would occasionally take hold of my hand, and murmur reassurances regarding my holding-still non-activity—and would then remonstrate, "AND HOLD STILL!"—and then there would be more noise, or more medical chatter. And sometimes, of necessity, Dr. Geek would speak directly to me.
"Okay, I'm going to give you the local [anesthesia] now. There will be a little sting, but that should be all you feel. And I want to know if you feel anything else! On the count ..."
"Not a problem," I assured him, wryly but sincerely.
"What's that?"
"NOT A PROBLEM. I'LL LET YOU KNOW."
"Oh yes, good. On the count of three, then. Onnnnnnnnnnnnnne," he began, drawling out the number to an almost painfully slow pace, "twothree."
"SNEAKY!" I exclaimed, not without a little admiration for the devious technique. The technician and assistant laughed, and Dr. Geek launched into an impressive array of pseudo-shocked disclaimers that I would assign him such an accolade.
Unlike my experiences at the dentist, the numbing agent wielded by Dr. Geek was completely and thoroughly effective. As far as I was concerned, his erratically-paced count was entirely forgiven, and, when he was satisfied that all was in readiness, he moved forward with the next phase of the procedure.