THE WAITING GAME

Stray pieces of pink candy floss, here there and everywhere — yes, that’s how the pink ribbons are starting to look.

If I sport any more ribbons, I might look like a decorated general.

Every time I reach for a piece of parchment paper, another pink ribbon stares me down.

There are so many ribbon campaigns now–green, white, yellow, purple and pink and because I am becoming cynical, most of them are losing some currency with me.

But the pink one still pierces.

My mother lived the last 15 years of her life fighting breast cancer.

Too many women I know are fighting the fight or have lost the fight. I am not unique. We all know someone.

On a recent stroll through The Bay, my favourite Kitchen Aid mixer in a pink, “Cook for the Cure” version caught my attention. I am often staggered by the thought machine that fires away in my brain. On average, humans have 70,000 thoughts per day or about 1.2 thoughts per second. After the pink food processor beckoned to me, my thoughts went something like this—have we have gone too pink when pink food processors and logo emblazoned mugs and jewelry are everywhere?

Is this just another feel-good branding exercise sold to some starry-eyed marketing manager?

Maybe the pink ribbon campaign is making a difference by raising more dollars for research. If so, is there a reduction in the number of breast cancer cases diagnosed or in mortality rates? These thoughts then meander to feelings of relief and gratitude. Thank God my number has not been called yet.

Note to self, you idiot- stop procrastinating and feel your boobs, or in clinical terms, conduct a breast self-exam.

Finally, one bleak November morning a few days after my 55th birthday, I self-righteously decided to give my breasts a good once over in the shower. Good girls and learned ladies know we should do these in the shower, because detecting lumps is much easier on wet skin.

Shamefully, even with a family history, for some odd reason, (denial?), I am not as vigilant as I should be with self-exams, though I am obsessed with booking my mammograms (however a controversial study has recently brought even these two sacred cows into question). I had become aware of some breast tenderness so in the shower, well lathered with soap,

I gingerly began my exam.

Feeling boobies for a lump is like tiptoeing across a floor after you have cleaned up a broken glass. In the same way, you hope not to feel a shard of glass zap into a tender toe pad, stinging like a wasp, you circle your fingers around your breasts hoping and praying nothing will interrupt the smooth circle dance. A dreaded routine - it always feels awkward to me. An oddly self-conscious exercise, you hope no one is watching.

My hand came to a standstill at the 4 o’clock zone on my left breast.

Oh my good God! There was no fooling myself. There was something there and it hurt to touch. I felt again a few more times before continuing with the self-exam and then I quickly rinsed off. Stepping out of the shower, I felt sick– I felt the instant worry, of finding something out of place on my body. That nasty feeling of having your comfortable morning routine blown to pieces by some bad news smashing through the glass shower door.

Human nature is such that when we have a sliver, a lump, a bump, a boil, a zit or a missing chunk of tooth – we gravitate towards it, touching it, looking at it and generally focusing on it too much. It must be something primal in our DNA – designed to make us aware of something wrong. The intense focus can become obsessive-compulsive.

Between the time I found the lump and called the doctor (48 hours later), the mental gymnastics started.

It felt as if my 70,000 thoughts per day doubled and most of them were negative. At first, I rationalized that I had had a few lumps before and fortunately, they had been benign. But this was the first lump since my Mom had actually succumbed to the disease. Maybe my number had been called. Was this punishment for my vices? Was it too late to start bargaining with my maker for a reprieve?

I took some comfort from the general consensus that most often there is no pain associated with breast cancer. Because my lump was large and tender, I convinced myself it was a cyst. And so the hours passed with thousands of thoughts taxing my brain, one in particular. How could I have missed something that pronounced?

As kids, we have vivid imaginations, often imagining playful and fun scenes.

At what age did my imagination transmogrify into a worry cauldron spewing out negative scenes and nasty outcomes?

Luckily I was able to see my family doctor immediately. I like her style. She is direct and action-oriented. As she was examining the lump, her furrowed brow got my worry genes working overtime. On the topic of pain, she informed me there is one type of less common breast cancer, inflammatory breast cancer that actually is very painful. On a “priority basis,” she ordered a diagnostic ultrasound and mammogram. I gasped when she advised that priority meant I would likely have an appointment within two weeks. She encouraged me to stop feeling the lump.

Two weeks! What happened to the same day diagnosis splashed across national media a few years back?

How does anyone mark time when they have found a lump, be it a breast lump, a prostate lump or any other lump that needs to be investigated to determine malignancy? The distraction factor is immense. In Canada, 23,400 individuals will be diagnosed this year with breast cancer. That means annually, thousands of women are trying to act normally while waiting for tests and results. Unfortunately, 450 of them every week, will get the news they dread the most.

I tricked myself into believing that I would not start a massive search on the internet. I decided to find ways to stop thinking about it. One strategy was to not tell anyone other than my partner. I made the mistake once before of telling too many and then they join you on the worry train, all of which creates more stress, knowing they are anxious to know the results.

Not telling people is easier said than done.

“How are you?” “What’s new with you?” As the days went by, lying became harder. I felt like an imposter, because the lump and impending diagnosis had become so large in my psyche, yet I had to act like everything was great in my life.

Isolation set in.

I am weak and I snuck into Google reading about breast lumps, and inflammatory breast cancer. I also found the place where they offer the “same day service.” It is Toronto’s Gattuso Rapid Diagnostic Breast Cancer Centre, one that exists thanks to the generosity of Emmanuelle Gattuso and Allan Slaight. Ms Gattuso was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2003 and found one of the most stressful times was the waiting period, so she created a centre for rapid diagnosis.

What a brilliant idea. If only, we could all have access to similar services.

Bitter at the thought of such a service only Ontario, I momentarily wished I had never moved from Toronto. Further research revealed a report card of a sort which details the wait times by province, from the time a lump is detected by a doctor, to the booking of the diagnostic tests. To my disappointment, two weeks was in the acceptable range.

Just a few days after my doctor’s appointment, my tests were booked. Initially I thought I had won the lottery as my tests were going to take place, just six days after my initial doctor’s appointment. The mental monsters in my mind wondered if this was good news or bad news – i.e. did my doctor’s description of what she found move me to the top of the list, or was it just a slow week in diagnostics?

I have played this lonely waiting game before.

Each time, feels like the first time and each subsequent time, feels like I am playing my own Russian Roulette, as I consider I may be running out of chances. For me and for thousands of others the stress and isolation of waiting, is a true test of mental strength and emotional fortitude. It is a horrible time of waffling between positive thoughts and deep dark thoughts. I wander over to the dark side more than I should.

Waiting for the tests and then the verdict was hard work, two weeks from start to finish. Once again, I have escaped the Grim Reaper.

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Admittedly, the pink ribbons remedied my inertia.

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By Nancy J. Wood . First Published in Island Gals Magazine . 2012 . Volume 3 . Issue 1 .

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