Like Christmas Morning

I had a morning last week that felt like Christmas morning. Or like the memory of one of my teenaged days when I woke up and my Mom and I would get in the car and drive to town and spend the day together, maybe go shopping and out to lunch, and there wasn’t anything tremendously special that happened, it just was that we were together, a golden ordinary day.

Funny that I am tearing up a little as I write that.

I had a day like that last week because I went to an imaging lab and had a second set of scans performed on an area of my left breast. I had gone in for a mammogram the week before, a procedure that always sends my hypochondriac-prone self into spasms of anxiety. Because it’s a thing that you are supposed to do every year, but you never know what will be discovered. Will everything be fine like it’s been for years or will there be a shadow, something amiss that will change the trajectory of how your life is going, suddenly veering you off in a new unwanted direction with appointments, an oncologist, unplanned expenses, new kinds of pain?

There is a sign on the wall of the mammogram changing room that says you should receive results in a week to ten days. Sometimes it can take longer if they have to hunt down scans that were taken at other facilities. I remember that last year I received my results quickly, much quicker than I thought possible, and everything was fine. Of course, this year, I hoped that would happen again.

It did not. My mammogram was on Saturday. I did not hear anything until I got a voicemail from the imaging lab on Thursday, asking me to call them back. You do not want to get calls from doctors after scans like mammograms. It generally does not mean good news.

I called back, heart pounding, and talked to a kind receptionist, who told me that they wanted me to return for additional scans, and it looked like a report had just been posted in my “My Health Online,” and did I want her to go over it with me? Absolutely. Because that has long been a nightmare of mine, receiving potentially life-altering health information by myself without anyone around to provide perspective or support.

She said that there was an area that had an “asymmetrical density” that they wanted to get another look at. She couldn’t exactly say that it was nothing to worry about, but that was the sense I got: that the radiologist simply wanted additional scans out of an abundance of caution. That phone conversation most likely would have alleviated the anxiety of many women, especially those who do not have a propensity toward health anxiety.

That is not me.

When I got home, I looked at the official report in my health app, copied it, and asked AI what it thought. AI said, “While these findings are not immediately suspicious for cancer, follow-up imaging or consultation is essential to ensure accurate assessment.” That was slightly encouraging. But a dark cloud entered my world on an ordinary Thursday afternoon and hovered over me all weekend and was there on Monday while I worked and stayed there until last Tuesday, when I went for my follow-up scans.

Another lovely part of this process is the note that the imaging lab adds to your appointment reminder, that you should check with your insurance company to see about your coverage for follow-up scans, that the cost of a yearly regular mammogram is covered without a fee, but additional follow-up scans are not.

I was scheduled for additional scans and then for an ultrasound, “as needed.” I hoped I would not need that ultrasound. Because, you know, additional tests have a cost. The mammography tech performed the first set of scans and sent me back to the changing room, where I sat in my pink gown and waited, wondering if the doctor would want me to have the ultrasound. She passed by me several times and avoided eye contact. This made me nervous. And then another technician came and said it was time for my ultrasound. Apparently the radiologist had examined my new scans and wanted more information.

Crap.

So I went into another room, laid down on an exam table (which was heated, so at least that was nice), plopped my left arm up over my head so she could access the pertinent area, and worried. I guess they had seen something ominous that necessitated an ultrasound. But then the technician told me that they almost always do an ultrasound after additional scans, that it wasn’t unusual. She also talked about her personal experience with re-exams, how she was supposed to come in every six months for mammograms because of a questionable area and also because she has a family history of breast cancer, but she didn’t think much about it, missed the appointment (even though she works there), and eventually needed to have a biopsy. Which came out fine, she said. Even if you need a biopsy, I guess, a lot of times it turns out to be nothing.

Which made me feel a little better.

She took videos and photos and disappeared to confer with the radiologist. For some reason I thought that the radiologist would talk to me, that I would meet her, or him. But no. The radiologist was a mysterious figure who only communicated through the technician. A few minutes later, she came back and said, “Good news! There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll see you in a year for your next scan. Just like normal.”

Just like normal.

What a difference a few hours can make. I entered the imaging lab scared, unsure, alone. I left with relief and gratitude. All the stories I’d been telling myself about how this could go, all the ways I was afraid. I knew that Ash Wednesday was the day following my scan. Perhaps the good Lord was setting me up for a season of mourning, because life as I had known it was going to change in a radical way with a cancer diagnosis.

But it didn’t.

You would think that the exuberance, the joy that I felt leaving the imaging lab would stay with me for days, weeks, months. But it wasn’t long before worries began to crop up again. Like taxes and owing more than I had expected, or Trump. Musk. All of that. I remember the joy, though, and the relief, and how lovely the days were after I first realized that the asymmetrical density in my body was not dangerous. How it was just a part of me. I would love to keep that feeling of gratitude alive: when I start to feel anxious about something, to remember how worried I was going into the appointment for my follow-up scans, how relieved I felt right after. How it felt like Christmas morning. How it felt like hope.