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Chapter 1: Tiny Weird Identifiable Lump (TWIL)…
TWIL showed up in April—or rather I found TWIL in April. It is strange because self-exams were not a routine for me even though I knew the importance.
I always had dense tissue and would get an annual ultrasound just to make sure all was well. Nine months prior, I had done just that, only that time I also had a mammogram done as I had hit the big 4-0. Seems reasonable, right?
TWIL had other plans.
I feel like TWIL should be a female (given the circumstances), and SHE showed up one night, which led to: no sleep, Google, over-thinking, and, of course, prayers.
I should mention at this point that I am a natural over-thinker, and it takes minimal disruption to my routine to cause an existential crisis.
Google suggested that hormones could play a role in TWIL and that same should resolve itself as the month progressed. I obeyed as I needed to continue to function in the real world.
Three weeks later, TWIL was unresolved and still very present. Next step: doctor. I opted for the same clinic where I had the mammogram done as they would have all my records. Success! An appointment was available in two days.
Longest two days of my life.
… Or so I thought.
Armed with my dates and Google research, I showed up and listened while the technician and doctor examined me and completed the ultrasound. Then, of course, the dreaded wait while they conferred in another room.
“[…] Seems harmless at this point, but let’s see you back in two weeks to confirm…”
Longest two weeks of my life.
… Or so I thought.
That night, I spiralled. What if this is not harmless? What if I have to make plans for my daughter? What if I am dying? What if and what if?
My husband tried to calm me but also comforted me: “Whatever this is, we will get through it. But it’s nothing.”
I returned in two weeks and was met with the need for a follow-up ultrasound.
“This looks different to when we last saw you… To be sure, we want to have a biopsy done. You can get it done in two days.”
Longest two days of my life.
… Or so I thought. Queue another night of spiralling.
Biopsy day came, and I had an all-day training session at the office. I would need to have it done on my lunch hour and return to work. Again, same clinic.
The doctor came in, went through the process, and asked if I had any questions. I wanted to say: “Lady, we don’t have time for allll the questions I have in life, far less for this.” Instead, I said “no” so we could get started.
“If it’s any comfort, this looks innocent,” she said, “but we really just want to be certain as images can only tell us so much…”
The first injection stung as that was meant to numb the area. The actual biopsy samples were taken via four extractions, each of which just felt like pressure and not pain. The pain came afterwards but was well-managed with OTC painkillers.
“Results are normally ready in one week.” I was provided with a leaflet that explained the process and also outlined that you should bring someone with you to your results appointment.
Wait, this is real?!?!?! Could I be receiving bad news in one week? Queue the spiralling… and, of course, the longest week of my life. Or so I thought.
Results day came: May 16. My husband was stuck in all-day interviews at work, and a couple of my friends offered to take his place to accompany me. I declined as I was hesitant to make this more than I so desperately wanted it to be: NOTHING.
Don’t waste anyone’s time; don’t make a fuss about this because this is going to be nothing.
A colleague and I always jested about the Bad News Room. The clinic had a little room to the front, and we speculated that it was where bad news was given.
I was invited to the general waiting area. After a couple minutes, I was told: “Please follow me.”
Up the stairs and to the right… to the Bad News Room. I felt the panic setting in but kept my composure, all the while telling myself that this is just where they discuss allll results—not just bad results.
A new doctor this time.
“You have never met me, but I have been reviewing your file and your case in the background since you came in April. I am the specialist here, and we have received the results of your biopsy here. Sit in this chair here.”
He waved me over to the chair closer to his desk.
“It is breast cancer.”
My inner self floated out of my physical body, and all I could manage to say was, “Really?”
After what seemed like an eternity, I found myself hearing the doctor’s words again. He continued speaking, but I was unable to hear him… I was numb.
I had gone temporarily insane, perhaps, thinking about what it would mean if this were not a dream, if this were true, if this was reality.
It was.
The doctor said something along the lines of “We caught this early—it is small and very treatable, but we need to operate and remove it as soon as possible.” He asked about my daughter and if anyone was with me. It was at that point that the floodgates opened, and I allowed myself to feel my reality.
I cried. I thought about my mom in 2001 and the day she told us about her diagnosis. I felt a rush of emotions, wondering how to tell my little family, my circle.
The nurse was asked to sit with me while the doctor stepped out and allowed me to have a moment. She reassured me that they had dealt with this a thousand times and that it was in no way a death sentence.
I kept saying the date to myself as if it would somehow change the news I had just received: May 16. I found myself remembering the date of my mother’s passing: July 16. My birthday? September 16.
Coincidence? Maybe. Chilling? Definitely.
In the minutes that the nurse sat with me while I cried, she did her best to reassure me. She gave me examples of persons who received similar diagnoses and went on to live full lives, one even seeing the birth of her first granddaughter.
The doctor returned and requested that I come back the next day with my husband and come prepared with our questions or concerns. In that moment, I remember thinking: he is kind.
I also remember thinking: TWIL, you f@cker!!
Editor’s Note: Stay tuned for Part Two of Josie vs Cancer on Wired868.
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Thank you. It’s not a journey I’d wish on anyone but if my story can help others then it would be worth the trauma of reliving it through my words…
Thank you for having us go along with you on this journey.
You drew me into the experience you went through. I identified with you since I am a cancer survivor.
I await your next installment. I want you to write more since you write very beautifully.