“Just relax. The gel is warm, so it shouldn’t be too bad. I’m going to use this wand to poke around, and we’ll just see what comes up.”
She doesn’t make conversation, for which I’m thankful. I wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation as if everything was normal right now anyways and I respect that she lets me sit in silence while she does her work. She squirts the warm jelly onto the tool, placing it on my skin and pressing slightly to maneuver it around. She does it all with one hand, not taking her eyes off the computer in front of her. She smooths the gel around so the tool glides across my skin. Repositioning a few times and clicking on the screen. So much clicking. Clicks to mark whatever she sees. Clicks to measure it out. I’m not entirely sure since she doesn’t talk me through it, but the clicking continues until she’s satisfied with whatever she found.
She moves on to a new location and repeats the same movements. Click, click, click. Rolling up the paddle against my skin, maneuvering the jelly to change the angle again and again. After a few minutes, she breaks the silence by saying, “Sit tight. I’m going to grab the radiologist so he can take a look as well.” She steps out of the room and closes the door behind her.
This is when the panic sets in. This didn’t happen the first time I had a mammogram or an ultrasound.
What does she see that he needs to look at? How bad is it? Are they sure they know? Is it something I missed? I lay my head back and close my eyes, taking deep breaths to center myself and to calm my racing heart.
It’s just a precaution,I try to tell myself.
They just want to make sure that they’re sure. It’s nothing. It’s not going to be anything.
What feels like hours, but is probably only a couple minutes, ticks by before the door opens again. The ultrasound tech is followed by the radiologist. He greets me politely and introduces himself, but I don’t pay attention to his name. My mind is going crazy trying to plan out all the eventualities of what’s about to happen. I’m both in fear and in denial that they might find something. They talk in hushed tones over the computer where the tech points out a few things on the screen. The doctor sayssomething like “let’s see here” and grabs the wand again, squirting more jelly. It glides across my skin as he rolls it around to the place the nurse indicated on the screen. He presses harder, maneuvering again, looking intently. Maneuvering again. Pressing harder. Maneuvering again, eyes on the screen. Scrutinizing. Talking quietly to himself.
I can’t take my eyes off where he’s looking at the screen. Can I see it? Do I want to see it? Is there anything to see? I wish I knew whatIwas looking at so I knew whathewas looking at.
He switches locations to the other spot on my breast, but must not see anything because he only takes a cursory glance and then he’s back to the top of my breast where the larger lump was. He presses harder, maneuvers the wand, trying to get a different angle. He keeps moving it around and staring at the screen. Finally, he gives up and puts the paddle back into the holder attached to the computer. He hands me a washcloth to wipe off the jelly and says the words that I’ve been fearing the most.
“We’re going to need a biopsy.” He must see the fear on my face because he continues, “It’s undetermined what the lump is at this time. We just want to get in there and take a sample to make sure that everything is okay. Do you have any questions?”
I’m sure I’ll wish I would’ve asked one of the million questions I have, but I don’t. I’m spiraling. My world has been tilted on his access.
What is the biopsy? What are they going to do? How does that work? How soon do I need it?
These are all questions floating around in my head, but I can’t voice any of them. I’m in shock. I sit there frozen, holding back the tears in my eyes. He lightly taps my knee and says, “We’ll get you scheduled soon. It will be okay until then.”
I’m still lying on the bed as the tech closes out of my chart.
“You can go get dressed and then you’re all set. They’ll call you to schedule. No need to check out on your way.”
I tie the gown together as I sit up. Standing on weakenedlegs, I walk out of the room and back to the changing room. The key is around my wrist, and I take it off to unlock my locker. Take off the gown. Put on my bra. Put on my shirt. Grab my purse. Check the mirror to make sure my clothes are in place. Make sure there is no evidence of tears on my face. It’s fresh and clear for now. The mental to-do list I check off keeps me preoccupied. Keeps me together until I can fall apart. Satisfied that I’m holding it together for the moment, I clear my throat and leave the dressing room.
I exit through the door I entered and avoid eye contact with everyone in the main waiting area on my way out of the building. I fumble around in my purse for my keys as I walk to the car, feeling the impending collapse of my carefully constructed facade. Slamming the door shut behind me, I throw my purse into the passenger seat and drop the keys into my lap.
I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes to stop the tears. My heart is racing. My breathing is staggered. My mind is whirling. Everything feels too heavy. Yet at the same time, a numbing sensation creeps in.
I lean into the numbness to get myself home. It feels like I’m watching myself from above as I insert the key into the ignition and turn the car on. My arm moves to put the car into gear and I begin to drive home on autopilot. Tears fall but I don’t feel them. My breaths even out as I focus on the physical sensations of driving. Nothingness follows swiftly. I don’t know how I managed to get home, but soon I’m pulling into my driveway and around the back of the house.
I struggle to get the key into the deadbolt, and that’s when the nothingness fades and the spiral begins. The key finally turns, and I push the door open. My purse is on my forearm and when I yank the key out of the lock, it hits the glass bowl on the edge of the entry table. Glass shatters all around me. Anger bubbles up. At myself for being alone. At my doctor for finding the lump. At Chase for letting me push him away. At my friendsfor not knowing what’s going on with me even though I don’t share. Outrage at the situation.
I throw my purse down, the contents spilling and mixing with the glass on the floor. I swipe everything off the island on my way by, making an even bigger mess on my way upstairs. I can’t find the urge to care that I’ve made a mess I’ll have to clean later.
I just want to fall into bed and sleep until this nightmare ends.
Chase told me about his fight with Gabby before we left for this latest series after I complained to him for being the reason she cancelled our breakfast on Sunday. I tried reaching out to see what was going on with her, but she was distant with me too while we were gone. Enough is enough. Since we’re off today after getting back late last night, I stop by her office, but she isn’t there. Her assistant says she took a sick day, which isn’t like her. So, I’m stopping by her house to get to the bottom of what’s going on with her.
The last time she took a sick day was when she had a mammogram last year and I found her in a ball in her bed. It has me on edge. I pull into her driveway and her car is parked in its normal spot around back. Getting out of my truck, I sort through my keys to find the one to her door. It’s no surprise when I find her door unlocked. This girl is asking for a murderer to walk in one day. What is surprising when I walk in is the glass shattered on the floor. Remnants of the glass bowl where she puts her keys are scattered around the area.
I was only joking about the murderer, God. Please let her be alive.
I’m on high alert, wishing I had a weapon in case I’m about to encounter danger. Moving deeper into the house, I see wreckage. More glass on the floor. Papers are everywhere. It’s like someone swiped everything off the counters. Her purse is in the corner with its contents spilling out.
If there isn’t a burglar, then whatever is going on with Gabby is worse than I thought. I’ve never seen something like this, especially not from her. She’s normally cool and collected, even while stressed or under pressure. She’s only ever cried the one time I found her. The house is deathly quiet, but that doesn’t stop me from grabbing a knife from the butcher block just in case someone is hiding inside. Blame her for all the true crime we watch together.
I slowly make my way to the stairs. The only signs of destruction are in the kitchen area, which makes me feel marginally better. I keep my ears peeled for any signs of life or struggle. Soft sniffles reach me when I get closer to her bedroom on the second floor. The sight that greets me is one of nightmares.
Not again.
