Cape Fear

“Ms. Moo?” the voice was coming from a body in the corner with a clipboard for a head. It’s the curse of the paperwork software. Some places, namely the ones that feel the need to place plastic bracelets on your arm, use a software program that cuts off after exactly 3 characters of one’s surname. It’s a perplexing problem for someone with a perfectly symmetric name like Dina Moon – 4 letters, 4 letters. It’s a shame to leave that last letter off, I think. “Diana Moo?” The name butchering continues with predictable reactions. All waiting room eyes gravitate to me, Ms. Moo, who has just stood to acknowledge the greeting. I don’t even correct them anymore. It’s easier to go with the flow. I can be Diana Moo for the next 2 hours. That’s how long I will be here, in this auxiliary Baylor Hospital building. It’s mammogram day.

I’ve been coming to the Darlene Cass Imaging Center for fourteen years. For thirteen of those years, I’ve received amazingly blessed news.Iknowtheroutine.Iam privy to the details that only a seasoned pro would know, like how you can bypass all the spiral turns in the parking garage to find that one odd spot on the second floor, the only one not reserved for doctors. The ground floor restroom is always a disaster, but the one on the 2nd floor is never in use. I listen as the office staff responsible for giving my name a bovine lilt instructs me on proper cape positioning, locker protocol, and where to find the waiting room. I manage a smile, all the while thinking I should really apply for that job. This is generally the moment I wax poetic about why I’m there at all. I made a bad decision. See, all those years ago, back when I was 41 and just diagnosed with Stage III Class 2B Hormone Positive Breast Cancer, I was asked if I wanted to lose both of “them,” or just the bad one. Of course, this was the same day I’d submitted to genetic testing, a bone density scan, a PET scan, a chest X-Ray, and a conversation where I was given all my outpatient surgery dates for lovely things like a lymph node dissection and a chemotherapy port placement. I was shell shocked. “What should I do?” was all I could think of to say. “We aren’t allowed to advise you,” was the response. That was followed by, “All I can say is, you’re going to have a lot of drains on that one side.” I attempt asking another question. “So, are you saying that I would, if I chose to say adios to both of “them,” have a lot of drains on both sides?” The response was a shrug, followed by a prompt to hurry on up with my decision. “I guess we can chop just the one?” was my statement that came out in question form. So, I had a unilateral mastectomy on the right side. Not to get too deep in the weeds, but mine was a radical mastectomy, rarely done these days but necessary, due to one of my tumors being so close to the surface of the skin. Technically, it was a radical latissimus dorsi flap mastectomy. I’m just a regular sized gal with a small shoulder to chest circumference, meaning some of my back skin had to be threaded through my armpit and used to replace the missing areas in the front. Irrelevant, all of it, except for the part where I didn’t choose a bilateral mastectomy to remove both of “them,” so I still must get a yearly mammogram on the good one. Hence, we return to our story.

Cape donned and locker chosen, I plopped down in the secondary waiting room to read my book, while the voice of Rae Dunn, the Pioneer Woman, softly played in the background. Blueberry orange muffin tops were in the oven. Soon, my name was called. Rather, Ms. Moo’s name was called. My technician reminded me of my childhood violin teacher, Blanche Little, who lived on Cundiff Street in Seagoville. She was a combination of cultured and sweet. Immediate warm and fuzzy feelings ensue. Bippity Boppity Boo – I was through. “Just go back into the waiting room and sit down. Don’t change out of your cape, dear. Someone will be with you shortly.” This was new, or old but now new. See, for the first decade of these mammograms, the wait for results thing was how it was done. Then, about 5 years ago, they changed things. You’d be instructed to “consult your portal” for the results in 5-7 days. The portal thing must’ve been problematic for the over 70-80 set, because it’s problematic for me! The facial recognition doesn’t work for that app and they’re constantly telling you that your password expired. I was pleasantly surprised to see they’d gone back to in person same day results! And, that’s where things got scary.

I was still reading. Rae was still cooking, having moved on to lemon bars, I believe. I still had my “open to the front” cape on, wrapped tightly and clutched to my chest with a vice grip. Simultaneously, two voices spoke. Miss Moo and Miss Smi were both needed ASAP. I stand and see my violin teacher doppelganger standing at the door to the room I had exited 30 minutes earlier. I march to her. “Oh, no, dear, you’re headed to the room right over there.” I look in the direction of the point where a brunette woman, not in technician’s garb, stands in the doorway of a room where breast imaging is not done. I recognize this room immediately. This is where the biopsies are performed. Gulp. As Eminem says, “Yo, his palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy.” I will myself inside the room. As the woman looks up to ask me my birthdate, she senses something is wrong. Surely the near tears, ducts about to overflow thing gave me away. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Your mammogram was clear. Is everything ok?” I exhaled for a solid 5 minutes only to say, “This is the biopsy room.” She asked if I needed a hug. I nodded yes. Moments later I was exiting the building to find my car, nestled in between far nicer doctor cars in my secret parking space. I’m home now. Another year, another clear mammogram. But, life is hard in Cape Fear. Life is hard.