I open my eyes and groan. I roll over and groggily swipe off my sleep mask. Mid-afternoon sun streams through my bedroom window. It is still several hours until my critical care night shift starts but I am wide awake. With a sigh I reach for my phone and see two missed calls. One, from a doctor’s office wanting to schedule an appointment, the other from a good friend. After a quick call to schedule the appointment (only two next week, whoo hoo!), I dial my friend. I can tell something is wrong. She quickly explains she received a call earlier today and was told her first ever screening mammogram is abnormal.
My stomach twisted in knots. I knew the feeling. I could hear it in the tone of her voice. When you receive the call, all the sudden two futures stretch out in front of you. In one, after a couple weeks of fear life returns to normal and you move forward. In another, everything changes, those two weeks will be the least of the suffering to come and life will never be the same again.
Part of me was just angry. Why should my dear friend have to deal with this horrible situation? Wasn’t my suffering through breast cancer at the age of 39 enough to satiate fate’s appetite? Can’t I be the one woman in eight and my friends and family be spared?
I know it doesn’t work that way. I know that my lightening strike breast cancer can’t take the place of someone else’s. In my heart I wish it could though. I wish I could take away every moment of fear and desperation that she will feel over the next two weeks while waiting for the follow up testing.
I wish I could carry that for her and every other woman who will receive that call. The truth is when you have an abnormal mammogram, there is nothing anyone can say to ease the fear. Hearing “it is probably nothing” or “don’t worry” is exactly what you DON’T want to hear. Saying “don’t worry” is diminishing the potentially life changing situation you are facing. Saying “it’s probably nothing” is only saying it’s nothing to you…it’s something to me, it’s everything to me.
The truth is, of course you are going to worry. Of course you are going to be scared. These feelings make you a normal human. Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer I had two scares. The first, at the young age of 22. After finding a lump on a self-exam the summer before I started medical school, I required a series of imaging studies and then an excisional biopsy.
Again at the age of 37 I found a lump on a self-exam. After another series of imaging the lump, which actually turned out to be two lumps, was benign but concerning enough to get me into the high risk breast screening clinic at my local highly respected cancer center which ultimately saved my life. I was in the high risk program only two years before I was diagnosed with cancer.
For me that fear never lessened, though in time I did learn to live with it. With each pilgrimage to the cancer center for screening mammograms, ultrasounds, or MRIs I was scared. Each time I found a lump I was terrified.
And so as much as I wished to take that fear away from my friend I couldn’t. There is nothing I can say that will take away the misery she is going to experience over the next two weeks waiting for the repeat mammogram and ultrasound. This is a trial by fire that many women will face and the only way past it is straight through.
But what I can do is be her friend. I can be part of her support system. I can assure her that we are in this together and she will never be alone in her battle regardless of outcome. I can go with her to her appointments and listen openly when she needs to talk about her fears and doubts. As a spiritual person, I can pray for her strength and wellbeing. As a physician I can help her navigate the health system and advise her on how to be her own best advocate. And if things go south and the results suggest the worst, I can be with her every step of the way.
These are the things that a fighter needs. They don’t need shallow assurances or dismissive suggestions that they are overreacting. They need to feel supported and loved. They need to feel like they aren’t alone. They need to feel that their feelings are valid and their experiences are real and acknowledged. If I can do nothing else, I can do these things.
And so, if you are ever given the opportunity to support a fighter who is faced with an abnormal mammogram, instead of saying “don’t worry”, tell her she (or he) is brave and strong and that you will be with her (or him) on the journey. Buy flowers. Listen openly. Give hugs. Go to appointments. These are the ways you can show your support.
Now it is my turn to pay it forward for all the times someone did these things for me.
