thankful for what i don't have: the machine, the purple, plastic key chain and the rollercoaster ride

it was only my second one, mammogram that is.

but my first one was fairly painless and uneventful, and so, naturally,  that is what i expected of this one too.

after waiting for about a half hour, they called me into the little room with the mammogram machine, which, as i've come to understand is really nothing more than a souped-up vice that takes really good pictures.  the technician was kind, and did the exam as gently as possible, bless her soul.

(for those of you who have never had a mammogram, for whatever reason--too young, too male, or too busy--it is a sight to behold.  i would have never imagined the breast could get smashed into such  freakish, pancake proportions if i hadn't seen it with my own two eyes.)

after the exam, she asked me to wait while the radiologist reviewed the pictures.  so i sat there in my purple gown and waited.  they had given me a locker key on a purple, plastic, coiled key chain, which i wore around my wrist.  i took it off and began to play with it, stretching it every which way, while i had these inspiring thoughts:   

we women sure have high-maintenance bodies. men don't have as many physical/medical things that they have to endure just because they're men.  but then, we get to have the babies!  from our bodies, we get to bring life into this world, we get to sustain it and nurture it.  i wouldn't trade being a woman for anything! 

these were the sorts of thoughts i was lost in while sitting there playing with the purple, plastic key chain.

and then the technician came back into the room.

"the radiologist saw something that doesn't look good and wants to get a few more pictures." she says calmly.

both my mom and my cousin were diagnosed with breast cancer last year.  these were serious words.

after a second round of pictures, i found myself sitting in the same chair, playing with the same purple, plastic keychain--waiting--yet having such different thoughts.

what if it's cancer?  will i do chemo?  if i do, will i get really sick?  would i wear a wig or a scarf if i lost my hair? how will my priorities instantly shift?  will i still be able to visit the girls in santa barbara? what is God doing here?

 

these questions all flashed through my mind in about 15 seconds.  

about 20 minutes later, the tech came back and told me that the dr. wanted her to do an ultrasound.  after the ultrasound, she told me that the dr. would come in and do another ultrasound and talk to me about what she is seeing.

it was another half hour before the dr. came in and did the second ultrasound.  by then, i was feeling weepy from waiting, and having my breasts repeatedly rolled on and squished.  i. was. done.

when she was finished, she said cheerily, "everything looks great." it looks like what i saw are just normal, water-filled cysts."

so what was that 2-hours all about?  maybe it was to get me thinking about how quickly life can turn; all my little plans for the fall could have been wiped away in an instant.  (we are always that vulnerable, that fragile, that dependent, yet we fool ourselves somehow.)  living with the possiblity of having breast cancer, even just for an hour or so, makes me so thankful for what i don't have.  and that is reason enough for the roller-coaster ride.