Five months ago I went in for a routine mammogram...

Once you have had a diagnosis of cancer, there is nothing routine about any of the tests. I watch the faces of the technicians administering the various bone scans, MRI's, CT scans and X-Rays; reading into every flinch, sigh, and failure to meet my eyes.

I've had more than one misreading by a doctor of radiology. The longest three days of my life was a weekend three years ago when I was told on a Friday afternoon that my cancer had metastasized to my bones. Monday morning I received a call back from the surgeon apologetic that my tests had been misread. I was torn between thanking him and threatening him.

So, it was with my usual trepidation that I put on the gown, sat on the chair and waited for them to call my name this time. After the mammogram I was back in the chair again waiting. Finally I was told that they needed to do an ultrasound. I wasn't told why. I didn't need to be. Two hours after I went in for the mammogram I finally left the hospital. My boyfriend, now my fiancée, was patiently seated in the waiting room. I caught his eye and started out the door. Pat quickly followed. Once in the parking lot away from the health care professionals I allowed myself to cry. The not knowing, the waiting, is always the most difficult for me. You can't yet begin to deal with what is still unknown.

Three days later I was at a surgeon's office. My only defenses were my dignity and the knowledge that if whatever they found on the mammogram was malignant it was a new site, not a metastasis from the original cancer. Breast cancer metastasizes to lungs, bones, or liver.

This was a new surgeon in a new city. I wanted him to accept me as a human and as a survivor, not just another lump. I spoke to him about my previous cancer. I asked questions that made it plain that I would always expect answers and demand the truth.

He told me there was a cyst. It was too small to be felt but it did show up on the mammogram. The ultra sound showed it to be suspicious. He was also concerned about a thickening around my nipple. I knew this was scar tissue from some earlier plastic surgery. He had no prior knowledge of my case and had to investigate this for himself. We made a good match as doctor and patient. Surgery was scheduled for the following week.

The morning of my surgery, Pat was back in his hometown of Denver. His son was having a tonsillectomy this same week and we agreed he needed to be there. My daughter Kat went with me to the hospital as my support system. My surgery was scheduled early. First I needed to go to the surgeon's office so they could locate the cyst with ultrasound and mark it with a needle. This would enable him to make the incision at the precise place. There was a slight pain as the needle entered but nothing too difficult or lasting. I left his office bandaged, and headed for the hospital.

I had expressed the desire to stay not only awake but also alert during the biopsy. Valium was used to relax me and during the procedure I joked with the team of nurses. I had been warned that I had an excellent surgeon but that he wasn't very personable. Excellent seemed more important to me, and indeed, during the biopsy he refrained from speaking except to communicate with his nurse. Towards the end I was feeling very relaxed, either the Valium or all the laughter. I felt the need to connect with the man on the other side of the scalpel. I relayed to him what I had been told about his lack of personality. Everyone got very quiet and the nurse holding my hand squeezed it a little tighter. He looked into my eyes and I could see the twinkle. He winked at me and said, "That's why I have Karen." Karen is the nurse from his office who also assists him in surgery. You have to admire a man who admits his shortcomings and adjusts for them. He's the talent and she's the personality.

My time in recovery was short and 30 minutes later I was out the door and heading home. I felt so good that I treated Kat to lunch and dropped by work to alleviate everyone's fear.

I spent the next few days praying and visualizing. Visualization had helped me in the past. Six years earlier when I had chemotherapy I would go into a state of relaxation and visualize the chemo as little "weeble-like" maids sweeping the cancer cells out of my body with brooms. Now I invited the maids back to sweep up any malignant cells that might be accumulating.

I finally got the call I had been waiting for and headed back to the surgeon's office anxiously. In the past I had been given devastating news on the telephone; surely this doctor wasn't meeting me in person to deliver a good prognosis.

He did his exam before I questioned him. I remember sitting there with a sheet held up against me as he delivered the news. He had removed the small cyst and the pathologist had examined it. It wasn't malignant but it was pre-cancerous. If it hadn't been caught so soon it may have grown into a malignancy, or it may not have.

I choose to think of this as affirmation that mammograms and self-breast exams do pay off. I also feel gratitude that the doctors follow my case so diligently, even if at times I feel as if I'm under a microscope.

It's been six years since my original diagnosis and I'm still cancer-free. I examine my breasts frequently and never miss a mammogram. I've added large amounts of fruit and vegetables to my diet and cut back on meat. I practice relaxation techniques and visualization.

Most importantly I pray. I pray that my spiritual healing continue and that God will continue to carry me on those paths of life that are too difficult to go alone. I thank God for all he has given me. I have two happy and healthy children; friends and family who love and support me; and a man that accepted me and my scars, even before he fell in love.

If this page will inspire just one woman to have a mammogram it will be worth the time, effort and tears it took to pour this out and stick it up. And one day when I'm eighty years old I'll be sitting on my front porch rocking, assorted grandchildren and great-grandchildren at my feet. I'll tell them the story of being 39 and surviving cancer....the best thing that ever happened to me.

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