The surgery (not for the faint of heart)

Back to Thursday, 10/20. When I registered in the mammogram/ultrasound department, there was much confusion among the administrative personnel about the procedure for which I had been scheduled. Turns out that the appointment was scheduled incorrectly, but since there was surgery planned they had to squeeze me in (pun intended).

The first stop was in an ultrasound room. Cathy sat with my things where she could see me and see the screen of the ultrasound machine. Since my appointment was made inadequately, the technician was unprepared for me, and I had to explain exactly what I was there to have done: In order for my surgeon to know that the mass she was removing was indeed included with any other tissue, a tiny metal thread the width of a strand of hair, was to be inserted into my breast and into the mass. With that information and the other details like which breast was the 'bad' breast (although I honestly loved them both equally and always will) , the technician started the process.

Along with Cathy I watched the ultrasound screen as the mass appeared. When the technician was satisfied that she had located the correct position of the mass (and I guess she worked out that she was on the correct breast . . .), she left to get the radiologist who would be inserting the metal strand in the mass. Being in a kinda crazy mood, I began introducing myself to the doctor, introducing the doctor to Cathy, and I told this doctor that, since I was sure his first name wasn't Doctor, I would be calling him John. John Rego, it turns out, is a member of the other shul that's about a mile from our house, Temple Beth Abraham, a Conservative shul.

He made some comment about our mechitzah, the divider in an Orthodox shul between the men and the women, and we bantered back and forth having a good ole time. Then he numbed the area, warned me when he'd be sticking the needle in, and, with the help of the technician, located the mass and threaded the needle through it. On the screen we could all see the mass, and now we could see the process clearly - even the indentations of John's fingers could be clearly seen. What will they think of next?

When the metal thread was in place he cut off the part of the thread that was still sticking out of my breast, leaving about an inch or so for the thread to be taped down to my skin. This was to ensure that the thread didn't get lost in my breast. On to the mammogram room.

Now Cathy and I had just seen obvious and clear, hit-you-in-the-face sort of evidence that there was something growing in my breast. But when my breast was placed on the plate in the mammogram room, nothing appeared except the metal thread! I had had more than one mammogram in my life, but this setup was altogether different, because the x-ray image appeared continuously on a monitor when my breast was placed on the bottom plate. So we could see, really SEE, exactly what was going on. Cathy remarked about the lack of proof of the mass on the mammogram, and pondered how many women must be thinking they're healthy when they have 'clean' mammograms. Two pictures were taken, and once the technician was confident that they had everything they needed for my surgeon, I dressed, took the folder with the pictures, and headed to the 2nd floor surgery dept.
We met up with Neela in the surgery dept. I checked myself in with the woman at the reception desk, handed her the films, and told her I was having a great day so far. (I am confident she thought I had lost my mind.) Neela, Cathy and I sat in the quiet waiting room and chatted until I was summoned by a nurse. "Can my entourage join me for the procedure?" I asked her. She slowly shook her head 'no,' and she let my friends know that I'd be done in about an hour.

I was led to the surgery room, a small room with lights and supplies available like in any operating room, but within the clinical office and examination rooms. Not even 'outpatient surgery,' more like the we'll-just-take-care-of-that-in-my-office sort of place. The surgical nurse prepped the area with betadine, then the doctor arrived. There was soft music playing in the background, and Dr. Shaw went to work on my left breast. She explained each step as she worked - opening up the skin, cutting through the tissue (with small scissors, what a strange sound to hear!), locating the 'area of concern' within the tissue, etc. As she worked we talked about all sorts of things - lots of issues about breast cancer, plus details from our lives. Even the surgical nurse chimed in, saying her son was floored when he attended a bar mitzvah party that was black tie, all that for a 13-year-old boy. When I was all sewed up and they were finishing with me, I asked to see the tissue that Dr. Shaw had removed from my breast.

This was both fascinating and disgusting - the removed tissue took the shape and approximate size of three scrambled eggs (now that's a lot, I thought), and was composed of some ugly yellow fat globules, whitish breast tissue and the mass. As I watched Dr. Shaw cut the mass in two - it seemed like it was thicker and denser than the surrounding tissue, having a color I'd describe as very pale yellow, she said, "This doesn't look good," after which she rushed to provide all sorts of caveats about her remark. The tissue went off to the lab, I got up and dressed, and when I emerged into the waiting room I was feeling quite chipper and happy. Cathy and Neela, my yoga friends who accompanied me to that day, were absolutely amazed that I had my composure and sense of humor intact.