I don’t like phones much. And I certainly don’t like phone calls from numbers I don’t recognise. I am the arch screener of calls, and whilst I can be very tech illiterate, I’ve figured out how to send lots of numbers to my block list recently.
So, I ignored the unknown number that rang out of the blue.
Until I saw that the exact same number had phoned my work number almost immediately.
Random callers might have one number, but they don’t have both.
So I answered.
And it wasn’t a call I really wanted to receive.
It was a lovely nurse from BreastScreen saying that they’d reviewed the results of my mammogram (first one ever, which had involved some pretty unpleasant squishing of the boobs and contorting of flesh, so I was looking forward to not having to repeat the experience any time soon). And they wanted to invite me back for more squishing and contorting because something had showed up. Nothing to worry about. As I hadn’t had a mammogram before, they just couldn’t rule out whether it was something that was normal for me, so they needed to do some further checks.
I have to confess to being pretty grumpy when I arrived at my recall appointment. The Covid-19 check in procedure annoyed me. Why do I have to scan a barcode? No-one is even checking the data now. Yes, that’s my name. No, that’s not my address. Not anymore. I moved 2 weeks ago. I don’t live in Adelaide now. So it’s very inconvenient that I’ve had to come back to town for these extra checks, actually.
I used my inside voice for all the grumbling.
Sitting alone in the waiting area I looked around at the variety of women of different ages, skin tones, mobilities – all here for the same reason, no doubt. I listened to the lady calling each woman in turn. Hellohowareyou. No wait for a response. Ushered into a series of opening and closing doors.
In turn, each woman disappeared behind a glass door, presented with instructions on changing and, reappeared dressed in a hospital gown, holding a shopping basket of belongings (and hopes that this was all just a big misunderstanding).
Follow-up screening is a bit like a game show where you hope NOT to progress to the next round. First another mammogram, using a 3D scanner. Squish, squash, contort. Not as bad as last time.
Back to the internal waiting area.
In to see a doctor. Very kind, very solicitous. But bearing the news that you haven’t been eliminated yet. You’ve made it through to the ultrasound round.
I used to love having ultrasounds. When I was pregnant with twins I got invited back for extra ones to check the babies were growing and not up to any mischief. (There was a chance they had twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome, they thought at one stage). Seeing the happy little heartbeats was a joy.
It’s not so much fun having your boobs scanned.
Especially when they find something lurking. A tiny dragon? Another round, and still not eliminated.
Back to the waiting room. Back in to see the doctor. More forms to sign. Then back into the ultrasound room for the next level of tests. The biopsy stage.
The same radiographer, who was lovely, doing her best to help me relax. The radiologist bustled in and explained the procedures she was about to perform. (A fine needle biopsy into the lymph node and a core biopsy of the mass they could see on the scan). She clicked the core biopsy needle so I was prepared. It sounds like a stapler, so I appreciated the heads up! A few clicks later and I was all patched up, handed a card with an appointment to get the results, and my shopping trip was complete.
2 days until I would know whether I’d finally been dropped, or whether I’d just been selected for a gameshow nearly as sinister as The Running Man.
