“You see that little spot? We’ll need to biopsy it.” I sat next to the radiologist and stared at the 3-D image of my breast on his computer screen—a droopy gray blob marbled with stringy microcalcifications. “Stop at the front desk on your way out to make an appointment.”
Three weeks later I returned to the breast imaging clinic. I shed my sweater and bra, slipped into a mauve gown, wrapped the tie twice around my middle, walked to a waiting room, and joined four women wearing identical cloth gowns. One after another each woman walked through a door leading to the mammogram rooms.
Today I’d walk through a different door—the one leading to a biopsy room. I squirmed in my chair. I picked at a cuticle and cursed a lighthearted Mozart sonata playing background music.
I clenched my fists. My breathing quickened. I wanted to ignore that little spot. I hugged my purse close to my chest, comforted by its familiar lumpiness just as my child self once found solace from a stuffed toy. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Exhaled loudly.
I stared at the wall clock. The radiologist was late. More waiting. As if three weeks waiting for today’s appointment hadn’t been torture enough. I imagined him finishing lunch, checking messages, brushing his teeth, and reviewing my medical chart. I was just another patient facing a routine needle biopsy.
Today was anything but routine to me. As I watched the secondhand circumnavigate the clock face I wondered if my run of good health had ended. Was I destined to join loved ones who had died from cancer? If I bargained with the universe would I deflect the family cancer curse? I began negotiating:
• If my biopsy comes back clean I will limit alcohol consumption to weekends only.
• I promise to eliminate processed foods from my diet.
• I promise to walk 50 minutes every day.
• I promise to lose 20 pounds.
• I promise. I promise. I promise.
As if promises could make that little spot disappear.
“Carol?” I nodded, startled back to reality. I adjusted my gown and followed a nurse to the biopsy room—a space with the ambience of a meat locker. Surgical ceiling lights cast an icy glare on an elevated examination table that rose five feet above the floor.
I listened as the nurse explained the stereotactic-mammogram guided-breast biopsy. “During the procedure, you will lie face down on the table. Your breast will fall through an opening where a portable mammogram machine below you captures stereo breast images and computer-analyzes them to pinpoint the biopsy location. The radiologist, guided by screen images, will then insert a hollow-core needle into your breast, extract tissue samples, and place a tiny clip, the size of a sesame seed, to mark the biopsy site. Questions? Let’s take your blood pressure.”
On the best of days my blood pressure rises during a doctor visit. This was not the best of days. The cuff tightened. My body quaked. The nurse gasped. “That can’t be right.” My BP read 220 over 90. A second nurse tried and got the same result.
The radiologist entered the room and tried to allay my panic. “Everything will be alright,” he said, then added, “Even if it is cancer, everything will be alright.” Even if it’s cancer? I stared at his face. I thought of my husband who had died from cancer at 55. Anger and fear roiled inside me. Tears ran down my flushed cheeks. No, everything will not be alright.
When the doctor couldn’t calm me his tone changed. “There will be no biopsy today unless your blood pressure drops.” The nurse gave my shoulder a squeeze, then she and the radiologist left the room. I felt like a punished child, powerless to explain my side of the story. Would he have shown compassion if he’d known my family’s cancer history? I should have said, “Go to hell.” I should have walked out.
I knew postponing the biopsy wouldn’t cure my anxiety. I needed confirmation that I was healthy. I tried calming myself with yoga breathing. I visualized my body being strong, resilient, and cancer-free. My blood pressure dropped. The radiologist returned to the room. We did not speak. I climbed a footstool and lowered myself onto the table. The radiologist numbed my breast. I never felt the long, hollow needle extracting breast tissue samples bound for the lab.
Cancer is no stranger to me or my family. The disease killed my cousin at nineteen, my father at sixty-four, and his father in his seventies. When I was thirteen dad and I visited his father in the hospital. The emaciated, bedridden body bore no resemblance to my grandfather. I was terrified to approach him, as if cancer was contagious. Years later, my father died from the same brain cancer that had killed his father. Pancreatic cancer killed my mother-in-law. My husband endured multiple cancers for seven years before dying from the disease. Sam’s death strengthened my belief that any cancer diagnosis was tantamount to a death sentence.
After my biopsy I read that carcinophobia, fear of cancer, is a common disorder among those who have had the disease or have known others with cancer. The American Cancer Society now considers many cancers chronic illnesses—manageable like diabetes or heart disease. I wish I’d read those words before my biopsy. Cancer is a valid fear, but my speculation and ignorance incited anxiety.
Before my breast biopsy I had never experienced a panic attack. I’d aced forty years of mammograms. Belly down on that table, breast dangling through a hole, I feared that little spot would gain me entry into a club I wanted no part of. I could have found answers to my questions, but fear stopped me from asking. I could have confided in a friend, but I chose silence. I feared not only cancer, but the stigma of being a cancer patient. And, although statistics from the National Breast Cancer Foundation claim that 80% of breast biopsies show normal tissue, I worried I might join the 20% with cancer.
With news that many cancers are treated like chronic illnesses I feel optimism today for friends undergoing cancer treatment. These men and women inspire me to look at the disease with fresh eyes, and hope, as I endeavor to move beyond anxiety grounded in my family’s health history.
I left the clinic with post-op instructions and the doctor’s words, “I’ll be in touch, soon.” An icepack resembling a small pink pancake nestled against my breast inside my bra. I never asked follow-up questions.
The radiologist called me ten business days after the biopsy. My heart raced when I saw his name on Caller ID. My hand trembled as I answered the phone. All I remember from our conversation are his words. “You are cancer-free.”
I slumped in my chair. Tears ran down my face.
Six months later I returned to the breast imaging clinic for a follow-up visit. I joined a new cadre of kimono-clad women awaiting mammograms. I listened to Mozart with a lighter heart. A technician called my name. I followed her down the hall. Fear might try to dominate, but this time I would be the one calling the shots.
Carol Raitt is a Seattle writer and retired environmental educator. Her writing appears in Under the Gum Tree, Canary, Corvus Review, Shark Reef and other places. Her essay about gardening during the pandemic is forthcoming June 2025 in an anthology from Wild Librarian Press.