Eggplant

Last Wednesday, I had a core needle biopsy and a bilateral ultrasound – the full breast on both sides and not just the lump this time. The radiologist’s assistant was the same woman who examined me a couple weeks ago - I recognized her by her hat. I have been paying a lot of attention to hats this week. The hair that sticks out beneath her floppy hat (am I imaging the flower?) looks like her own – maybe she wears a hat to show solidarity with the women she is imaging? Perhaps she doesn’t have time to blowdry? Surely it’s not just a kooky Punky Brewster affectation? Is this what people will think of me when they see me out to dinner in a hat a few months from now? At least it will be winter when I go through chemo – maybe I will be cut some slack.

She explains the procedure to me: “First we will take an ultrasound of both breasts, then the radiologist will come in to take some tissue samples.” It is my third ultrasound in three weeks – other than being a little ticklish when she runs the device (which looks like the ID scanner at my gym) over the outer sides of my breasts, it is no big deal. She even turns the screen toward me so I can see – always the student, and it beats looking at the ceiling.

Someone once told me that radiology as a specialty attracts the misanthropes - all slides, no sympathy (note to my friends in med school: I don’t mean you!) At first, this radiologist seemed to fit the mold. Lots of questions and instructions for the assistant: “Did you check the nodes? When you work with me, always check the nodes. Is the clip ready? No, I need the other kind. Where are my steristrips?”

She runs the scanner all around my left armpit, and the black and white images that appear on the screen seem to relax her. Maybe it helps that I am paying attention and looking at the screen as well: “It’s good if it looks like a horseshoe. See the white bit in the middle? That is what a normal lymph node should look like.” The news seems good. “I can only say that morphologically, things look fine. The nodes do still need to be tested microscopically.” Still, this sounds better than “You are a walking tumorous timebomb,” so I will take what I can get.

Next, she preps me for the biopsy: “You will hear a loud noise like a staple gun. But we use a numbing agent, so you won’t feel pain, just pressure.” Kindly, she suggests I may want to close my eyes while she makes a small incision for the needle. I watch on the screen as the probe finds its way to the tumor. “Loud noise,” warns the assistant. POP. I manage not to jump – the warning helps.

This happens three more times. The only disconcerting part is that two of the four times, I feel a slight splash of liquid on my chest and face when the tissue sampling occurs. The second time, I mention it in response to their standard “How you doin’?” query: “Okay, but…umm…I just felt something squirting on me. Maybe that’s normal?” Again, trying to be blasé while lying flat on my back on a table. I may need to get over that. They reassure me they see nothing. Later, as I wipe the minute bloodspots off my face in the bathroom mirror, I rationalize that perhaps they just thought I had freckles.

At the surgeon’s suggestion, the radiologist also inserts a titanium clip into the center of the lump, since sometimes tumors respond to neo-adjuvant chemotherapy by disappearing entirely. Unfortunately, this does not mean that surgery can be avoided. They still need to remove some tissue for tests and to ensure the areas around the tumor are clear. The clip ensures that they can pinpoint the tumor’s location in the event that it disappears.

I reveal that I have taken Advil in the past 7 days (after all, I was out dancing in a bar on Friday. And I thought I was in the clear!) “You can expect to see some bruising,” the radiologist warns. “That left breast could look like an eggplant in the next day or two.”

“Well, that should make for a great anniversary weekend,” I say weakly. “I guess I can just wear a nice bra.”

Suddenly, the doctor remembers she is human. “How long have you been married?”

And I can’t shut up. “Six years, but we’ve known each other for thirteen. Our anniversary is on Saturday October 21 – the same day my grandparents got married. We met in London – he’s English. I studied over there. We are going away for the weekend – I know that we are driving, so it must be somewhere cold, so at least I won’t need to wear a bikini or anything like that. Michael planned it as a surprise for me, before all this happened…”

Her hand is on my shoulder as the assistant finishes taping up the gauze. “Sweetie, you are going to be fine. You are young and strong. It’s not going to be easy, but the hard part will be over soon. Relax and enjoy your weekend.” I look into her eyes as she gives my shoulder a squeeze, and I believe her.

We did have a fantastic weekend – Michael planned a lovely getaway to Wheatleigh in Lenox, MA. We hiked, meandered around the little New England towns, relaxed in the gorgeous hotel, admired the changing leaves, and celebrated our sixth anniversary over a delicious truffle-infused dinner with our friends, Ursula and Enore.

And luckily, the doctor was wrong about the effect of the biopsy. It’s a slightly lurid yellow-green bruise, roughly the same diameter as the tumor. More like a hickey than an eggplant. Although we are far too grown up for such things, it does somehow seem appropriate as a visible reminder of a fabulous anniversary weekend.