…or toward Armageddon. Or some such.
So today M’hijito drove me halfway across creation to a noon appointment at the Mayo, to get radioactive markers injected into my boob so the surgeon can find the two DCIS’s she wishes to extirpate. Other than being extremely time-consuming — it’s almost an hour’s drive one-way — it wasn’t too horrible. At every turn I find myself saying “It could be one hell of a lot worse.”
But it was annoying. First they do a mammogram. Then, guided by a sonogram, they stick these objects in you, through a needle — this requires a local anaesthetic, to which, fortunately, I seem not to react as most people do. I do not find the injection of Lidocaine to be especially painful; apparently most people do. Then they drag you back into the mammogram room and X-ray your boob again.
It is essentially painless. And actually, it’s quite interesting. The technology and the skill of the operators are just amazing.
There’s something a little unnerving, though, when you realize the eminently professional (and very beautiful…oh, to be the Mother of My Grandchildren!) radiologist is probably younger than your son. This extraordinary young woman is in her fifth post-graduate (i.e., post MD) year and is a wonder of confidence and ability.
The annoying part coalesced when the second mammogram showed that the damn seed had gone into the wrong place.
So they had to do the whole unnerving procedure OVER AGAIN!!!!!
Ugh. More time consumed, more trapped-in-the-doctor’s-office claustrophobia, more leave-me-alone stress. Oh well.
It was around three, I think, by the time we got back to the house. We’d left at 11 a.m. So that was four hours of time consumed.
Tomorrow, the actual surgery. We have no idea how long it’s likely to take.
A friend of mine, who also had a lumpectomy only, said as she recalled they were at the hospital about four hours. However, hers was done so long ago that they were still sticking guide wires into your boob, instead of these little glow-in-the-dark markers. That meant the equivalent prep work had to be done on the day of the surgery.
So…with that already done today, presumably an hour or so could be cut from the time my friend reports.
It seems like every step along the way since that first “routine” mammogram at St. Joe’s — the one made after my gynecologist said everything was OK in there — every single step has gone wrong in some manner. So I have to say, I don’t feel at all comfortable about tomorrow’s adventure. The everything goes haywire effect has erased any confidence I might have had in anything anyone — even the redoubtable Dr. Paczgai — has to say about the thing.
She claims it’s fairly harmless at this stage, no need for radiation or chemotherapy. Right. I’ll believe it when I see it.
M’hijito reminded me this afternoon that Dr. P said it is not yet cancer: that it’s a pre-cancer that should be removed lest it decide to develop further. And I try to keep that in mind.
But damn. Every which way I turn, someone else is calling it cancer. The radiologists called it cancer today. The hospital staff call it cancer. When you hear that word thrown at you from every direction, it’s a little hard to regard it as anything other than a cancer.
And when every step has been an ankle-twister, it’s a little hard to keep the faith that tomorrow’s surgery will go the way you’d like.
Image: Ductal carcinoma in situ. Wikipedia. Gnu Free Documentation License.
Thanks for sharing your adventure. Folks don’t realize what it takes to fight cancer and the dedicated professionals in the biz that are worth every cent and the toll it takes on spouses and family. Been fighting lung cancer with “Dear Dad” for almost 2 years now and it’s not for the faint of heart. Just met with his very compassionate Doc who shared that latest scan shows the nodules are growing again and a new round of chemo will be required. BUT the Doc has a plan which makes all the difference in the world. The thing about cancer is that early detection is key and that’s what sounds like happened with you. A word of advice…try to pick up your prescriptions (ie. pain meds) at the hospital pharmacy or at your pharmacy on the way home after your procedure. That way the son won’t have to leave you unattended to run out and get you meds. Good Luck on your surgery and I wish you a speedy recovery….
Thanks very much!
I’m sorry to hear about your dad. One wonders what the point is, of putting people through round after round of surgery and chemotherapy. If they absolutely knew — or even had a reasonable (operative word!) hope that it would save your life, that would be one thing. But when you have a disease that’s going to take you away..one wonders, indeed.
The Mayo’s pharmacy is breathtakingly expensive, and my Part D provider has successfully resisted covering almost every prescription any doctor has written since I hit Medicare age. They insist on preapproval; the drugs the Mayo intends to write for me are concocted on the spot, after they see how you react to the pain. Well, preapproval can take days to weeks, so as you can imagine, that moots the use of a pain drug intended to get you through today and tomorrow.
Since I’ll almost certainly have to pay for it out of pocket, getting it at Walgreen’s could mean the difference between a $150 hit and a $50 hit.
IMHO, dealing with the bureaucracy is worse than dealing with the disease.
I’m thinking of you this morning and sending positive energy for quick healing.
Fingers crossed and best wishes… I had a non-cancerous lump removed a long time ago, and it was very reassuring they kept calling it “non cancerous” every time they referred to it. Made me feel a lot better. Hope you come back and tell us it all went the way you expected, if not better!
Hope all is well! Sending positive thoughts your way.
MAN…what kind of insurance do you have? To fight you at every turn on prescriptions….SHEEZ!! Unfortunately our coverage doesn’t have prescription per say…more like a discount on the prescriptions with a max payout of $500 AFTER you meet your deductable. I swear you need to be a CPA to figure out this stuff!
As for my “Dear Dad” and his fight…well…when first diagnosed I asked the Doc what happens if we do nothing…his answer…”6 months”…that was almost 2 years ago. During this time we have laughed a bit and cried a bit but if nothing else I have learned to appreciatte every day. My Dad hopes it extends his life as much as possible AND that the Docs can learn from his experience so as to help the folks that come after him. Dad is resolute…he wants to live…he wants be on this earth as long as he possibly can, to see his kids get old , to see his grand kids grow up…. As I see it….my job is….to see that that happens….
Well, in the treat lung cancer department, we have a friend who lived eight years or so after his initial diagnosis. He DID have to return to the hospital a number of times for grueling chemotherapy and other treatment. However, between those episodes, he had a good quality of life. He and his partner bought a beautiful home in the quiet country town Yarnell, which they used as a home when they weren’t running around the country or the world gathering merchandise for their highly successful resale store. Eventually they sold the Yarnell house to move to a larger small town that was on the route to Nevada, where their business continued to thrive.
He was active and happy during most of this time. It appears that even though they can’t necessarily save your life, many of the new treatments not only can delay the end and also do so in a way that makes the remaining time tolerable.
I have Medicare Part D, the annoying, weirdly quirky prescription drug coverage that Medicare participants are forced to purchase from private insurers. Because I take no drugs on a chronic basis, I purchased the cheapest plan I could get. And you get what you pay for. This outfit does NOT want to cover any prescriptions.
However, they gave me the Oxycodone at the Mayo for…hang onto your hat…four bucks.
Thinking of you and hoping the procedure goes well.