Thin latex lies between cold hands and the tender skin they poke and prod. Lines are drawn with markers across the skin of my chest. Borders are sketched out like political boundaries across the small territory of me. Flesh that once fed and fed and fed babies, and apparently kept nothing for itself, will be divided and conquered. Later, these lines will be traced over with a scalpel.
When we zoom out, what is it we’re all so mystified about when it comes to the cause of cancer, anyway? It doesn’t seem like that big of a head scratcher to me. For starters, our crops are sprayed with poison strong enough to require that the people applying it wear protective coverings. And that’s just for starters.
There’s a variety of other contaminants also floating around in our closed atmosphere. Agent Orange, nuclear fall out, and pervasive amounts of plastic. We’ve produced so much plastic, it’s found its way into the water supply. It’s on the insides of various and sundry aquatic life, even in umbilical cord blood. Every piece of this endocrine-disruptor that’s ever been created is still out there, floating around in the sea in island-sized piles.
But here we are, running around pinning little pink ribbons on everything while we search and search for the reasons behind such rampant amounts of cancer.
The radiologist wears a white coat and lots of make up in so many multiples of beige. I can see right away that this is her armor. Unnaturally long lashes are batted all day long at patients laying patiently in paper gowns on hard tables, not designed with comfort in mind (the lashes or the tables). They move like windshield wipers with every blink. This is modern day war paint. I imagine her preparing her face for the day, applying the layers of liquid foundation every morning. Something to hide behind.
I know the drill. This stuff is sold in “flesh” colored bottles…if your flesh happens to be the color of a filing cabinet. The idea is to choose the closest matching tone, and blend the edges in, careful to avoid a mask-like appearance. Conceal any dark and hollow places, swollen and sunken, somehow at once. Hide all evidence of laughter and tears- the joyful or painful realities that comprise a human life form. Cover up anything that might betray worried thoughts, sleepless nights, and the unseemly dark circles these things tend to leave in their wake.
There are lines at the corners of the doctor’s mouth where the foundation is showing cracks. The bright, sparkly eyeshadow doesn’t fool me either. It is not a bluebird day here, within the walls of the breast center. Even if the sky happens to be a lovely hue of robin’s egg-blue, you wouldn’t know it in this windowless place. Many people at this clinic are being leveled with the worst news of their lives, or already have been. These ones are sitting in light pink upholstered chairs, passively receiving cocktails of poison that’s served on tap, delivered through little ports that have been semi-permanently lodged into their veins. I guess can’t blame this doctor for needing to paint cheer onto her face by hand. It’s not so easy to come by.
I have seen the alluring rows of colorful products in the cosmetic aisle, offering their impossible promises. “Age-Eraser” and “Flawless” are sold in creamy shades ranging from chiffon to almond to malt. Some of them sport sassier names like Temptation, or Perfect Nude. And who doesn’t want to be that? Eye shadow colors tend to lean more towards the idea of intoxication. Appletini. Chardonnay. It seems this industry is trying to turn women into something to eat, something to consume, always with a nod toward her being as undressed and inebriated as possible for the occasion.
Note: As a universal rule, “flesh tones,” such as Birthday Suit, Centerfold, or Naked Bliss, seem to center around a peachy-beige color. Those with dark colored skin tones are assigned to bottles marked with names like Nightfall. On a good day, there’s Hidden Magic or Black Velvet. But some of the deepest shades of brown, about which no one could think of anything nice to say, may only be stamped with a number: #IE98H72A.
While some of these products sound good enough to eat, here under the fluorescent lighting at the imaging center, they match the tone of the room and all of its elements. A big swath of Sweet Dreams paint has grown pretty forlorn along one wall, where it’s been rammed continuously by a Soft as a Petal-hued cart, revealing a lighter tone of Peaches and Cream hidden beneath it from bygone times.
This cart holds the alternate equipment that will be placed on the narrow, embalming table-shaped plank I’m to lay on when they place me face down. Since we’re here scanning for breast cancer, the upholstery on this face-down set is a cheerful shade of No Regrets, but I’m not sure why Maybelline or L’oreal haven’t started calling it Breast Cancer Pink. There should at least be a paint color or a crayon named for this, because at the breast clinic, EVERYTHING is this color, even the receptionist’s keyboard. Certainly the robes they give you, which open to the front and cover exactly nothing.
The Sugar Cookie cart with all the IV supplies is wheeled over to me, where there are two attempts to place a line into me. The first one was no good, because my Love Letter blood started squirting out of a different hole, made earlier when I had labs drawn at another clinic. A Little White Lies bandage is placed over this mishap, and pressure applied. Luckily, a second attempt in the other arm is more successful. Soon I will have a Violet Trance bruise where the situation got a little out of control, which will slowly fade to Love Lies Hidden.
The table where one must lay face down, with her breasts literally compartmentalized into two different zones, is a dingy shade of Naked Bliss. The compartments are worn, but handily labeled L and R, in case you might get them backwards by accident.
While the MRI pops off like a machine guns for 35 minutes, I am quite uncomfortable, because, unfortunately this set up was made for someone much bigger than me. My face doesn’t rest where it should in the semi-upholstered cradle, and the padding doesn’t quite cover the hard, metal area running along my sternum between the compartments, or across my rib cage. When I stand up, I will have marks all over my forhead and torso in an angry shade of Beach Party. But for now, I have to hold stock still, with my arms stretched out over head so the IV can deliver the contrast dye.
I try not to worry about how much of this heavy metal dye has been injected into my veins over the last several years.
Gad·o·lin·i·um
/ˌɡadəˈlinēəm/
noun
1.
the chemical element of atomic number 64, a soft silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series
Now that they’ve figured out that gadolinium is retained in the body, the FDA is working on requiring health care professionals to disclose new warnings before administering it. But for now, it’s still the standard, because I think upgrading the risk is a process that might have gotten caught up in some Red Delicious tape. At least it’s available in “soft silvery-white.” That sounds serene.
There is a separate area with a window off to the side, where the MRI technician is safely sequestered during the scan. She speaks into a microphone that pipes her voice into earphones, which she placed over my head in not quite the right position once she got me sprawled out here with my breasts sorted into the proper boxes. At several points, from a safe distance, she’ll check in when the heavy artillery noise pauses for a few seconds. “You doing ok?” What a question.
When the exam is over, and I am lightheaded and stiff, and helped down from the table by hands with Sunshine Daydream fingertips. Lipstick can really add some life where color has been drained away. Forbidden Rose smiles at me and tells me I’m all done, and that my doctor will be calling soon with the results.
None of this is true, as it turns out. The automated system posts the report to my chart and emails me an alert before my doctor has reviewed it. And this gets me every time. I will lose all track of how many hours have passed as I sit, transposing language from the cryptic report into The Google, trying to understand if heterogeneously T2 bright intraosseous lesions within multiple thoracic vertebral bodies is anything to panic about.
The internet is a dark and scary realm, where there is a 2–94% chance that these lesions are metastases from cancer, originating from either a breast, lung or prostate. So, probably a breast or lung. And, given what I went in for, probably a breast. This means there’s a 7- 84% chance that I might be dead or alive, five years from the time of diagnosis. There are pictures of bald ladies with sunken eyes wearing Fuchsia Fiesta shirts and Strawberry Margarita ribbons accompanying many of the articles you will find down this particular rabbit hole.
When you type in key words about your query, the first results that pop up will be similar questions that other people have looked into. Here, everything is distilled down to the simplicity of basic fears and confusion. Bottom lines will stare back at you in black and white. But don’t click on those! And don’t use WebMD. Instead go to reputable websites, such as Mayo Clinic, The National Breast Cancer Foundation, or the like. They can provide real numbers (like the ones mentioned above), and will settle the score with clear, research-backed information like this: “Tumor heterogeneity is a hallmark of cancer cells.”
Do not take the easy route, and follow breadcrumbs left by others when they typed in simple questions like these:
Is heterogeneous good or bad?
Only one thing in my report is certain. There is a 100% chance the MRI will have to be repeated. It states that there was a technical glitch on their end, which means that images taken with the contrast dye didn’t work out. And this is a real bummer. The new information it does offer is only half-clear, and will require further testing, which relates to the scary as hell multiple thoracic vertebral bodies that are in some kind of trouble. And so, tomorrow I will be having a CT scan to explore these new findings more thoroughly. Things to look forward to!
With each test, I wade deeper into the waters. The big question Am I riddled with cancer, or just dealing with a minor blip on the radar? is answered only with more questions.
Either way, what a drag. Not only do I get to go through this whole exercise again, and absorb yet another dose of gadolinium, but the consultation with my surgeon will have to be pushed out a week or two, because without the MRI, we don’t know enough about what we’re dealing with. It’s hard to wait for this appointment because I have already been going slightly insane as I sit with so many questions like, “How much of my boob are you going to lop off?”
Photo credit: https://www.thehomicidalhomemaker.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/revlon.jpg
Astounding essay. As an old nurse, most appreciative of yes, the ‘gallows humor,’ and a health care veteran’s perspective. Thank you.
Your gallows humor is sharper than any scalpel. I'm right there with you.