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A Tiny Spot By Barbara Carr Phillips
A tiny spot is no big deal. Unless you’re a breast cancer survivor waiting for screen results.
My husband and I moved to another state with our children after my lumpectomy and chemotherapy/radiation treatments. He accepted a job transfer, and we felt it was a fresh start for all of us.
After we settled in, I scheduled my first follow-up exam.
When I met my new oncologist, I read off my list of concerns. I wrote them in my journal so I wouldn’t forget. “Don’t take this personally,” I say, “but I don’t like going to doctor’s office.”
The doctor smiles and nods.
“And I won’t schedule appointments with a new radiologist or a new surgeon for follow-ups. I just want you to take care of everything.”
He smiles again and says, “you won’t and I will.”
He gives me a prescription for Tamoxifen and schedules some follow-up screens. It’s been almost a year since my diagnosis.
“Will you schedule a surgery to have my port catheter removed?” I ask. The port catheter was surgically inserted in my chest before chemotherapy treatments began. The nurses used it to draw blood and administer chemotherapy instead of sticking my arm each time. Being type of person who faints at sight of a needle, I appreciated it during treatment.
“Yes, as soon as I receive follow-up results,” he replies.
A few days later, I complete screens. Piece of cake. I’m not scheduled to go back to oncologist for three months.
I start to make plans. I’m excited because my hair has finally grown enough to ditch bandana. When my port catheter is removed from my chest, I won’t feel so self-conscious about wearing a swimsuit.
A few days after screens, nurse calls me. “There is a tiny spot on your liver,” she says. The doctor wants you to go for a CT scan.”
“Fine,” I say.
I go to grocery store with my daughters, Makenna, 4 and Amber, 17. When we check out, I notice I forgot several things on my list. I push my cart out to parking lot and it feels like it weighs a ton. I almost make it to car before tears start flowing.
