Page 53 of Riding the Edge

Chapter Fifteen

Staring up at the fluorescent lights, I try to take my mind off my current situation and the six-inch needle the doctor is about to inject into my breast. However, my mind betrays me and instead of picturing myself on a tropical island, sipping Pina Coladas, I think back to a couple of years ago when my co-worker Leanne found out she had breast cancer. Of course, my initial reaction was to console her but, how do you console a woman after she’s told she must sacrifice a part of her anatomy to live. Like so many others, I’m sure she never thought it could happen to her. She got lost in her daily life and neglected her health. I think we’ve all been guilty of that at least once in our lives. We say we’re going to make an appointment with our gynecologist, something comes up and we forget to reschedule. They send the little reminders in the mail, you pin them to the refrigerator and never give them a second glance. Then one day you’re in the shower and you feel a lump. Immediately you rack your brain trying to recall the last time you went to the doctor and suddenly you remember the postcard on the fridge.

At least that was the case for Leanne.

The cancer had already spread by the time she caught the lump and though she had a double mastectomy and three rounds of chemo, my friend lost her battle with cancer.

Then there are women like me, who religiously go to the doctor because they have families that rely on them and grandchildren they want to watch grow. Since I turned forty, every year I go for a mammogram and every year I’ve gotten a clean report. Now, here I am, fighting back tears as I stare at the white lights, wondering if my luck has changed and if it has why me… why now?

It’s selfish and completely out of character but until it’s you until you’re the one under the knife, you can’t understand the debilitating fear. It’s incredible how one dreadful word can hold so much power over the entire human race. After all, cancer doesn’t discriminate, it knows no gender or race.

“We’re almost done. How are you doing?”

Licking my lips, I wipe the corners of my eye and force a brave smile.

“Fine,” I rasp hoarsely.

Turning my head, I close my eyes as the nurse assisting the doctor squeezes the hand raised over my head.

“Dr. Kennedy is finished taking the tissue samples and will now insert a marker into the breast just as we discussed. Once she’s done with that, she will cover the incision site with Steri-Strips and we will send the tissue samples off to the lab.”

“How long does it take to get the results?” I ask, keeping my eyes closed.

“It can take pathology anywhere from two days to a week. Our office will continuously call and follow up. As soon as they are in, Dr. Kennedy will call you into the office to discuss the results. In some cases, she might invite an oncologist to sit in on the visit to answer any questions the patient may have.”

I’m sure that’s comforting to some people, but the word oncologist is as frightening to me as the disease in which it treats.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re going to be fine, Mrs. Bianci,” she assures me.

Unable to speak, I nod in agreement.

Twenty minutes later, the procedure is complete. After icing my breast, I dress in the loose-fitting clothes I was instructed to wear and head into Dr. Kennedy’s office. Watching her shrug on her lab coat, I take a seat on the opposite side of her desk and wait for her to take a seat.

“Is there someone here to take you home?”

“No, I wasn’t aware I couldn’t drive myself—”

“Oh, no, you most certainly can. However, I encourage you to take it easy today. Ice your breast as needed and if you experience any discomfort, you may take Tylenol. Don’t shower for twenty-four hours. The Steri-Strips will fall off on their own in, give or take, three days.”

“Okay,” I reply, realizing I sound like I’m on autopilot.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

Meeting her gaze, I fold my hands on my lap and stare at her silently.

“How long have you been practicing?”

She smiles at the question.

“Fifteen years.”

“So, it would be safe to say, you know what you’re looking for,” I surmise.

“Mrs. Bianci—”

“All, I’m asking is for a little peace of mind, Dr. Kennedy,” I cry. “I want to be prepared. I need to be prepared.”

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