I didn’t really think about my breast appointment whilst I waited for it. It was scheduled for a Saturday morning, which suited me because I didn’t have to miss any work. My husband and I planned that I would go to my appointment in the morning and then we would go out for a bike ride in the afternoon.
The sun was shining as I drove to the hospital: it was an absolutely beautiful spring day if not a little more blustery than I had thought it might be. At some point on the afternoon bike ride, I was bound to have to cycle into a headwind which was always hard work, and I hated.
I hadn’t been to the breast clinic at our hospital before. I don’t particularly like our local hospital. It is sprawling and always seems rather grubby, but to give the place it’s due both my husband and I had both been well looked after whenever we had had to go there for anything previously. The breast clinic was a walk of several minutes from the main entrance along a maze of corridors, but despite the intermittent signage I eventually found it.
Thankfully the clinic itself seemed new and sparkling clean, and blessedly quiet. I signed in and filled out a form about myself and my previous breast treatment. No, I had no idea when my last breast lump was removed. It was several years ago when we lived in Durham, we have lived through covid since then, there is no way that I can remember the date, and the one before that is a complete guess!
A lovely nurse called my name and walked me along to a room where I met the consultant. He was really nice. We chatted about my previous treatments, I got undressed, popped on my NHS superhero cape that they kindly provide, and he had a poke and prod at my breasts, drawing circles all over them in biro where he felt a lump. There were several, but I knew a lot of them had been there for years and had previously been scanned and confirmed as cysts, so the number didn’t bother me at all. Like I said, I’m lumpy!
After that, it was down the corridor for more scans. The consultant had recommended a mammogram and an ultrasound. “Hopefully you won’t need a biopsy,” he had said with a smile.
The mammogram room was cold. I stripped off again and donned my NHS cape. I’d had mammograms before and found them uncomfortable, but not a problem. Who can say they enjoy having their boobs squashed between two plastic plates?
Then it was a case of dressing again and waiting for my ultrasound. Again, I have had ultrasounds before, many times, as I was too young previously to have mammograms having only recently headed into my 40s. I’m always fascinated by ultrasounds, and how anyone can make sense of the grey and black shadows on the screen.
At this point, I realised that I really should have worn less clothing on my top half as I stripped off, donned my NHS superhero cape again, and took my place on the bed, slightly disappointed that my position meant I couldn’t view the ultrasound screen.
The nurse was lovely. “We try to warm up the gel,” she said with a smile as she unwound reams and reams of kitchen towels. “These are for you. The gel goes everywhere. What’s it like outside?”
“Lovely,” I said brightly. “I’m hoping to go out on the bikes for a ride later.”
“How nice,” she said. “We don’t get to see the sun in here.”
“That must be awful in the winter. I bet you arrive and leave in the dark.”
She nodded and agreed.
The lovely doctor doing the scan arrived at that point and apologised for the delay (not that I had noticed one). Apparently, her daughter had called apoplectic with rage because her Dad was making her wear her school trousers because she couldn’t find her jeans. She rolled her eyes, “Teenagers!” she exclaimed.
We laughed and she settled down to scan me. She started on the left-hand side spending a bit of time on one area and taking pictures: the machine beeping away. Then they went over to the right breast and scanned that area too. “You have a lot of cysts,” she said.
“Yep, I know,” I told her.
“Something is showing in your left breast that looks a little odd. I’d like to get a biopsy of it if that’s ok?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
The two of them started bustling about to get set up for the biopsy. The nurse apologised. “It takes longer to get set up for the biopsy than to actually do it.”
I’d not had a biopsy before, so this was new. Even though it was out of the ordinary for previous visits I can’t say at that point that I was worried. They will take a bit of tissue and it’ll be benign were my thoughts.
“Just a sharp scratch,” the doctor said when they were all set up and she was ready to inject the anaesthetic.
“No problem. I’m fine with needles,” I said. “I have pernicious anaemia and have B12 injections every 10 weeks. They hurt like hell. Anything else is minor in comparison.”
Left boob suitably numb the doctor manoeuvred the ultrasound probe and the biopsy needle to that she could get to the area she wanted to check. She took three samples which didn’t hurt but made an alarmingly loud clicking noise and I felt a punch-like pressure in my breast. After she had taken the samples, she dropped them into a pot ready to go to pathology.
“I know,” she said as I eyed the biopsy needle with alarm, “it’s huge!”
“I’m going to put a clip in now,” she told me. The clip was to be titanium and about the size of a sesame seed. “It shows the biopsy site so that when you have future mammograms, they know that this area has already been checked and reviewed,” she explained.
“It’s not going to set off the alarms in the airport, is it?” I joked, and they laughed and assured me it wouldn’t.
“Nothing strenuous for 24 hours,” the nurse told me as she started to patch me up. “That needs to heal up.”
“What about riding my bike?”
She looked unsure and checked with the doctor who was finishing up my paperwork. “Absolutely not. It’s all connected so resting your arms on the handlebars would irritate it. I wouldn’t recommend it. It will be sore when the anaesthetic wears off.”
So that was the planned afternoon cycling off the cards, although given the strong winds I was secretly pleased to be avoiding the headwind.
Clip inserted, steri-strips applied to the wound where they had cut me, and large plaster applied to cover them up and keep them all in place, I awkwardly mopped up the gel from the ultrasound with the bundles of kitchen towels that the nurse had prepared for me. “Wait there,” she said as I sat on the edge of the bed clasping my NHS superhero cape around me. “We will try and sneak you along to the mammogram suite so that you don’t have to get dressed again or wait in the waiting room.” I was appreciative of this. I felt like I had gotten undressed and dressed way too many times that day already.
As soon as the mammogram suite was free we hustled along the corridor, me in my cape followed by the nurse carrying my bra, vest, t-shirt, jumper, jacket and handbag. She deposited them tidily on the chair for me, and I had mammogram number 2 to make sure my clip was positioned in the correct place.
I got dressed again and had a brief wait in the waiting room before another lovely nurse collected me and took me down the corridor and into a room with comfy sofas and a box of tissues prominently displayed on the coffee table.
I had already let my husband know that things were taking longer than expected because I had had to have a biopsy and as a result cycling was off the cards, but this room alarmed me.
“Why have they put me in a room with tissues to wait for the consultant?” I WhatsApped him with a picture of the room.
“I guess it is just the waiting room for everything,” he replied.
The consultant arrived a short time later with another nurse in tow. “As you know we did scans and took a biopsy,” he said. “We aren’t too worried but given your history with lumps, we thought it prudent. We have booked you an appointment in 10 days to come back to get your results. You can bring someone along with you if you like.”
Covid meant that you weren’t meant to bring anyone but yourself to hospital appointments, so I queried this.
“We always allow people getting results to bring someone with them,” the nurse said reassuringly. “Do you have any questions?”
I didn’t. Even then I really wasn’t too worried. I knew the chances were that it would be benign and that I was probably wasting a lot of NHS resources. I would come back in 10 days with my husband, and they would tell me that everything was clear.
I left the breast unit and walked to my car. My left boob was starting to get a little uncomfortable where the anaesthetic was wearing off. I drove around the corner to Tesco and bought myself a bunch of tulips for being brave, and then went home and spent the afternoon lying on the sofa watching Netflix with an achy left boob.
Shrapnel 