A 2015 photo taken during one of my walks in Delaware Park
In the late afternoon of Wednesday, December 21, two days before the start of the Great Blizzard of 2022 that hit my hometown, I drove to the suburbs for my mammogram at Windsong Radiology. Each year for the past several years, I’d let the scheduling of my annual appointment slide by a week or two. What started out as an autumn ritual right around my birthday had become another to-do item in December. Unlike a lot of women I know, I’ve never really minded the awkward squeezing and positioning of my boobs inside parts of a big machine. For me, the discomfort was always fleeting. And the peace of mind that comes from a clean mammo became more than a familiar routine—it was almost an expectation. Except for the fact that I was going to Windsong right before Christmas, this year’s exam seemed unremarkable.
About a week after my appointment, I received a phone call. Apparently, some changes had been detected on the images of my left breast. Another mammogram would be needed. A day or so later, I received the same message via a letter.
I went for my recall visit on January 3, a decidedly unpleasant way to mark the first week of a new year. In addition to the new mammogram, a technician performed an ultrasound. As she moved the gel-covered wand around my left breast area near my sternum and then near my armpit, I remembered how ticklish I had been as a kid. Despite the memory, I lay completely still on the exam table, wondering what secrets my 59-year-old body was harboring. I watched the technician’s face for any helpful hints, but she maintained a blank expression, her eyes glued to the screen.
Within a few minutes, I met with a doctor who showed me the images from my mammograms and ultrasound. Pointing to two masses, he explained there might be something to be concerned about, but there was no way to know without further testing. He seemed to speak with very little inflection in his voice.
(Do you suppose there’s a med-school seminar for those who want to specialize in oncology? How to stay inscrutable during those first few tests so you don’t freak the patient out.)
The next step was a pair of core needle biopsies on January 9, performed by a different doctor. I had heard that a needle biopsy hurts a lot, despite the fact that your breasts are numbed with lidocaine. My experience ended up being relatively easy. Before the procedure began and while I was lying on the table and waiting for the doctor, I actually dozed off for a few minutes. I don’t know if it was because I had mentally prepared myself for excruciating pain by breathing, relaxing, and fixating on one of the tiles on the ceiling, but my mind and body succumbed to a very brief but deep sleep. Of course, I hadn’t gotten much shuteye the night before, so sleep deprivation could have played a helpful role. During the biopsies, I could feel the needles going into my left breast, but each time, it was just a sharp, quick pinch. The ensuing pressure was uncomfortable, but not awful. Dr. S had a marvelous way of distracting me with small talk while deftly removing the tissue samples he needed.
A few days later, I learned that the biopsies were positive—cancer in both masses. My disease appears to be a slow-growing invasive ductal carcinoma, one of the most common types of breast cancer, according to the patient navigator at Windsong. The next step is a breast MRI, which will give the medical team a more precise view of what may or may not be going on inside my body. Obviously, my hope is that the cancer is restricted to the two areas in my one breast. In early February, I’ll meet with another doctor for a holistic review of all my diagnostic tests and to discuss my options for treatment.
While the initial shock from my diagnosis compelled me to game out worst-case scenarios, my outlook has evolved. I’ve found sustenance in conversations, phone calls, texts, and emails with loved ones. I’ve been blown away by the many friends and neighbors who have offered to accompany me to future appointments. In fact, I feel a little like George Bailey in the final scene of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” where he’s overwhelmed by the good folks of Bedford Falls who pour through his front door. They show up to reassure him that love is indeed stronger than any obstacle.
I also feel as if I’ve joined an elite club, albeit one to which I never sought admission. As a new member, I am leaning on veteran members, including three beloved friends from high school and college, for strength and wisdom. In just a few short weeks, I’ve received so much of both. I’m also learning a lot about my body, myself, and breast cancer in general. For one thing, I was surprised to learn that 1 out of 8 women will develop breast cancer at some point. Fortunately, the disease is highly treatable, and most patients go on to become survivors. As I have reassured my daughter: Cancer is not an automatic death sentence.
Meanwhile, I continue my search for ikigai. I’ve applied for several positions and am exploring freelance projects. I’m also being selective. If there’s anything this diagnosis has reinforced for me, it’s this: Life’s too short to pursue work that doesn’t fill you up in ways beyond earning a paycheck.
The only person I haven’t told about my diagnosis is my mother, who just moved to an independent living apartment in a new senior community. It’s still the honeymoon period, but all signs indicate she’s in the right place. She’s smiling again; I can tell even when we’re talking on the phone. 2022 was a tough year for her, and I'm not about to have my medical diagnosis snatch her joy—not right now, at least. Because that would, in many ways, snatch mine.
In fact, a relentless focus on things that fill me with joy and wonder is already part of my treatment plan. And if I can help it, I won’t turn this newsletter into a cancer journal. I want to write when the mood strikes—about different topics that will, I hope, provide both variety and constancy.
Thanks for coming along for the ride.