"Anything is possible. You can be told you have a 90% chance or a 50% chance or a 1% chance, but you have to believe, and you have to fight." -- Lance Armstrong
Yesterday I woke up at 4:45am. I put on some flip flops and a bikini, drove to the beach, and walked to the sand barefoot into the crisp chill of a foggy summer morning. It was dawn, but I couldn't see the sun; it was enveloped in a thick marine layer. The air smelled particularly salty, with the faint smell of decomposing seaweed that had washed up from the California kelp beds not too far off shore. I stood on top of a man-made dune just before it dropped down to the shoreline and paused for a moment. Then I set the timer on my watch, and began running due south.
I set out on a 10k in the deep sands of Santa Monica that I normally reserve for my Friday evening cardio workout. I love this run, but I only do it once a week to prevent getting bored of it as it is an incredible cross-training workout. I finished in 1:19:36 (a solid finish), having burned about 835 kcal in the process.
When I was done, I stood for a moment at Lifeguard Tower #26 and looked out to the great Pacific ocean, hoping for some profound thought or deafening clarity to overcome me. Instead, all I found was my lower lip trembling and my eyes wanting to cry, but my body being too exhausted to even put the effort into expressing emotion. I wasn't exhausted physically, persay; I rather was exhausted from constantly being emotional about the medical exam I had coming up later that day. It was the day of my ultrasound to figure out what that lump in my breast was, and while most of me was convinced I was fine, there was a strong presence within my very soul that felt like yesterday was the day I was going to wake up and then kill time before learning whether or not I had cancer.
How did this happen? Not six days ago, I was a normal 20-something year old who was focused on increasing the amount of weight in my next face-off with the Seated Row machine. Breast cancer was nowhere on my radar - I mean, possibly in the future, anything can happen. But now? No way. But last Thursday, during my pap smear, there my doctor was hanging over me with a skillfully-blank face, telling me she felt something. Five days later and there I was, on the beach before the sun had risen, hoping for enlightenment as I licked my lips and wondered if the saltiness was from the sea, or from my sweat, or from the tears I wished would flow in hopes of reconciling some sort of catharsis with the numbness I found myself in.
I had a couple breakdowns at work as I waited till noon for my mom to pick me up for my appointment. It wasn't necessarily out of fear, but out of pure exhaustion. What I didn't expect to happen was have my OBGYN call me with my pap results: as I feared, they came back showing signs of cervical dysplaysia. So already, at 10am -- a full 3 hours before I learned the fate of my breasts -- I was scheduling a colposcopy with my OBGYN to figure out if surgery was needed on the other end of my body. Is there no end in sight for this? I tried to remind myself, though, that I've been living with this for 6 years and was still alive and well; I know the drill for my cervix, so best not to stress about it. Cry because of heartbreak over it? Yes. But fear? Not now.
I sat in the waiting room of the Breast Imaging center for 50 minutes before they finally called me in. By then I was starving, even MORE exhausted, and stressed to the point of angered tears. Still, I maintained my composure until the doctor squeezed that lube onto my chest and began scanning it with the ultrasound wand. I looked over briefly at the screen and then immediately turned my head away. I couldn't bare the sight of it all. In that one moment, it became real. Because the doctor was seeing exactly what my OBGYN felt, and he took careful time - what felt like an eternity! - scanning it over and over. Announcing to the physican's assistant the coordinates of how large the mass was. "It extends from here [brief pause] all the way to here."
So much time passed. I think that's why it became real. I suppose I expected it to last just moments and they would easily identify that it was either one thing or another. But the doctor took his time. He paused for several minutes on one location, and then another. I had plenty of time to visualize what this moment was going to be like, but I couldn't anticipate the wave of surreality come over and that tightness in my chest similar to a panic, or perhaps an adrenaline overdose like the kind where you were speeding a bit and then saw a cop in your rear-view mirror and thought he was going to pull you over until you saw him change lanes at the last minute. Tears streamed down my face when I realized he was using his education to try to determine what this mass was - the answer didn't jump out at him. It wasn't easy. It required analysis, and proper doctoring. There was something wrong.
When it was over, he told me he *thought* he knew what it was. The words came out so quick and all I was waiting to hear was either "cancer", "biopsy" or "benign". I couldn't' listen to anything else. He explained in laments terms that what I had was similar to the concept of a mole - an abnormal growth of normal tissue. He mentioned that these are common in other areas of the body, such as the liver. Then he said it: It was a tumor, but this variety is usually completely safe.
I froze for a moment. Words were trying to come out but they got stuck in my throat, and so I let out an exasperated sob while looking straight into his eyes. The thought crossed my mind of how many times he has seen this face I was giving him - one of relief, or one of pure terror; they were one and the same. How many times has he had to deliver this news? How did it affect him? And why was I thinking of him so much???
His instructions to me where to carefully monitor it over the next 6 months and schedule a follow-up diagnostic ultrasound in December. So I made my appointment, and walked out in a complete daze. I can't say I felt relieved, because it wasn't the super harmless cyst I had expected. It was, after all, a tumor. I have a tumor in my breast. That's enough to make any woman anxious.
This morning, I woke up feeling normal until I remembered the events of yesterday, and it dragged me down into some gloom again. Perhaps if my pap results had come back clean, I would feel different. But I took the initiative of calling the Breast Screening center again, and asking more detailed questions that I couldn't ask yesterday due to an extreme case of discombobulation ;) I asked for my clinical diagnosis, and for my charts and ultrasound images to be sent to me. The latter will be mailed ot my house next week, and I promise to post an ultrasound image of Clementine (the name I have affectionately given my lump) :D
The clinical diagnosis given to me is a Breast Hamartoma. Hamartomas are described as the following:
When I was done, I stood for a moment at Lifeguard Tower #26 and looked out to the great Pacific ocean, hoping for some profound thought or deafening clarity to overcome me. Instead, all I found was my lower lip trembling and my eyes wanting to cry, but my body being too exhausted to even put the effort into expressing emotion. I wasn't exhausted physically, persay; I rather was exhausted from constantly being emotional about the medical exam I had coming up later that day. It was the day of my ultrasound to figure out what that lump in my breast was, and while most of me was convinced I was fine, there was a strong presence within my very soul that felt like yesterday was the day I was going to wake up and then kill time before learning whether or not I had cancer.
How did this happen? Not six days ago, I was a normal 20-something year old who was focused on increasing the amount of weight in my next face-off with the Seated Row machine. Breast cancer was nowhere on my radar - I mean, possibly in the future, anything can happen. But now? No way. But last Thursday, during my pap smear, there my doctor was hanging over me with a skillfully-blank face, telling me she felt something. Five days later and there I was, on the beach before the sun had risen, hoping for enlightenment as I licked my lips and wondered if the saltiness was from the sea, or from my sweat, or from the tears I wished would flow in hopes of reconciling some sort of catharsis with the numbness I found myself in.
I had a couple breakdowns at work as I waited till noon for my mom to pick me up for my appointment. It wasn't necessarily out of fear, but out of pure exhaustion. What I didn't expect to happen was have my OBGYN call me with my pap results: as I feared, they came back showing signs of cervical dysplaysia. So already, at 10am -- a full 3 hours before I learned the fate of my breasts -- I was scheduling a colposcopy with my OBGYN to figure out if surgery was needed on the other end of my body. Is there no end in sight for this? I tried to remind myself, though, that I've been living with this for 6 years and was still alive and well; I know the drill for my cervix, so best not to stress about it. Cry because of heartbreak over it? Yes. But fear? Not now.
I sat in the waiting room of the Breast Imaging center for 50 minutes before they finally called me in. By then I was starving, even MORE exhausted, and stressed to the point of angered tears. Still, I maintained my composure until the doctor squeezed that lube onto my chest and began scanning it with the ultrasound wand. I looked over briefly at the screen and then immediately turned my head away. I couldn't bare the sight of it all. In that one moment, it became real. Because the doctor was seeing exactly what my OBGYN felt, and he took careful time - what felt like an eternity! - scanning it over and over. Announcing to the physican's assistant the coordinates of how large the mass was. "It extends from here [brief pause] all the way to here."
So much time passed. I think that's why it became real. I suppose I expected it to last just moments and they would easily identify that it was either one thing or another. But the doctor took his time. He paused for several minutes on one location, and then another. I had plenty of time to visualize what this moment was going to be like, but I couldn't anticipate the wave of surreality come over and that tightness in my chest similar to a panic, or perhaps an adrenaline overdose like the kind where you were speeding a bit and then saw a cop in your rear-view mirror and thought he was going to pull you over until you saw him change lanes at the last minute. Tears streamed down my face when I realized he was using his education to try to determine what this mass was - the answer didn't jump out at him. It wasn't easy. It required analysis, and proper doctoring. There was something wrong.
When it was over, he told me he *thought* he knew what it was. The words came out so quick and all I was waiting to hear was either "cancer", "biopsy" or "benign". I couldn't' listen to anything else. He explained in laments terms that what I had was similar to the concept of a mole - an abnormal growth of normal tissue. He mentioned that these are common in other areas of the body, such as the liver. Then he said it: It was a tumor, but this variety is usually completely safe.
I froze for a moment. Words were trying to come out but they got stuck in my throat, and so I let out an exasperated sob while looking straight into his eyes. The thought crossed my mind of how many times he has seen this face I was giving him - one of relief, or one of pure terror; they were one and the same. How many times has he had to deliver this news? How did it affect him? And why was I thinking of him so much???
His instructions to me where to carefully monitor it over the next 6 months and schedule a follow-up diagnostic ultrasound in December. So I made my appointment, and walked out in a complete daze. I can't say I felt relieved, because it wasn't the super harmless cyst I had expected. It was, after all, a tumor. I have a tumor in my breast. That's enough to make any woman anxious.
This morning, I woke up feeling normal until I remembered the events of yesterday, and it dragged me down into some gloom again. Perhaps if my pap results had come back clean, I would feel different. But I took the initiative of calling the Breast Screening center again, and asking more detailed questions that I couldn't ask yesterday due to an extreme case of discombobulation ;) I asked for my clinical diagnosis, and for my charts and ultrasound images to be sent to me. The latter will be mailed ot my house next week, and I promise to post an ultrasound image of Clementine (the name I have affectionately given my lump) :D
The clinical diagnosis given to me is a Breast Hamartoma. Hamartomas are described as the following:
"A hamartoma (from Greek hamartion “bodily defect”) is a benign
(noncancerous) tumorlike malformation made up of an abnormal mixture of
cells and tissues found in areas of the body where growth occurs. It is
considered a developmental error and can occur at a number of sites. A
nonneoplastic mass can also arise in this way; therefore, misdiagnosis
is possible, as is subsequent overtreatment with its added morbidity and
mortality. Developmental remnants may be considered hamartomatous if
they form discrete tumor-like masses" (source HERE)
 |
| This is NOT an image of my ultrasound - just one of a breast hamartoma I got off the internet. But this is exactly what I imagine mine looks like - oval, smooth and soft. Mine seems to be about the size of a quarter of my palm, although I bet it's much smaller than that in real life. |
Of course, however, I did extensive research on them, and while they are considered benign and safe, many can evolve into carcinomas. I've read that breast hamartomas are particularly rare, and I had to ask myself - why didn't my doctor order a biopsy, just to be sure? He said his suspicion was that I had had this for years, and it went unnoticed. Hamartomas occur usually during early development (or, in my case, puberty) since the abnormal growth usually grows in relation to the growth of normal surrounding tissues. Last time I checked, I've been a fully developed woman for nearly 10 years. Unless my ladies are planning a late-life growth spurt (wouldn't that be nice!), there is no growth of the normal tissues happenin' around there. And this thing ain't no small little peanut. So even if it is a harmless Hamartoma, why is it growing? Am I the only one who sees a problem in the fact that I have a growing tumor in my boob??
Anyway. I called my OBGYN today and asked her to get a hold of my reports and offer me a second opinion. She is more of a less invasive doctor who prefers to avoid over-treatment when necessary, but according to my research, Hamartomas are somewhat difficult to diagnosis, even during biopsy. So I think she may see the benefit, if anything but to ease my mind given that I have a cervical issue I am trying to address - by ordering a fine needle aspiration cytology (
But at this point, I at least know one thing - that an obvious cancer is NOT in my breast. That is very hopeful :) And my cervix? Well, the dysplaysia came back as Low Grade Squamous Intraepitheleal Lesions, which is the mildest form of cervical cell abnormality there is, so I have some comfort in that, too. Doc said she hopes the biopsy is perceived as nothing other than an annoyance to me, since she's doing it mostly just to get a look at the area to re-establish a new baseline, and to determine if the areas of question are something to worry about, or just let go for another 6 months to see if they resolve themselves.
So for now, I will breathe easy. I will continue living my life and enjoying each day as the blessing it is; I will continue hating abdominal exercises, I will continue seeking new music for my cardio playlists, and I will continue planning my meals and having an embarrassing amount of fun with my new Tupperware with separated compartments. Onward and Upward!
Here's a little music video I made to a beautiful cover of Sia's song, "Titanium". It was designed to be encouragement for people facing obstacles while they pursued their dreams. But now? I find it to be encouraging for ordinary people just trying to survive the onslaught of maladies we all try to dodge in this crazy, crazy world.
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