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CANCER
The last words I ever thought I'd hear about myself were "You have breast cancer." It was as though someone had dropped a load of lead on my head. I felt stunned. This is something that happens to other people, I thought. Not me. I figured, I am healthy, I eat right, I have exercised all my life. My sister being diagnosed with breast cancer four years earlier was just a fluke. I mean, other than her, there is no history of breast cancer in my family, I reasoned. How could this be happening?
Every year since I turned forty I have been going to the USC/ Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center and Hospital in Los Angeles. I always looked forward to seeing my doctor, Mel Silverstein, who created the concept of the breast centers in this country. He is a nice guy and has committed his life to the care of women's breasts. My husband always jokingly tells him he is the luckiest guy around because he spends his days feeling women's bosoms.
It was time for my yearly mammogram, and I had been religious about having annual checkups since I turned forty. Because I had been so diligent, I cockily assumed that I was immune to the disease. After all, keeping such a vigilant check on my breasts would ensure that even if there was a problem, we would find it before it ever had a chance to take hold. The nurse pulled and squeezed, flattened, and pressed my poor aching breasts into positions no breast was meant to endure. But it was for a good cause, and all women know that the discomfort and humiliation are worth it in the long run, because this examination is about life, health, and prevention.
"Well, I don't see anything to worry about," Dr. Silverstein announced cheerily after looking at my mammogram.
I felt relieved, even though I hadn't even considered the possibility. Now I could go on with my life for another year knowing I had beaten the statistics once again.
I went into the changing room and hurriedly put my clothes back on. I had a busy day ahead of me--meetings with the various vendors for my jewelry business, the skin care line, updates on the fitness business, costume fittings, and a band rehearsal to get ready for an upcoming date in Las Vegas the following week. I was filled with energy and vitality.
"Suzanne?" I heard Dr. Silverstein call through the changing room door.
"Yes," I answered.
"You know, you've got such cystic breasts--lumps and bumps everywhere. How about having an ultrasound for good measure?"
I opened the door, wondering why this would be necessary. "Wasn't everything okay with my mammography?" I asked.
"Sure," Dr. Silverstein said good-naturedly. "It's just that we have this new state-of-the-art ultrasound machine. I just paid half a million dollars for it; and what the heck, let's take a look for good measure."
Why not, I reasoned. I was there, and it would only take another half hour. Surely I could fit this into my busy schedule. My health was more important than anything.
I lay down on a stationary bed in the ultrasound room, feeling no alarm, since this was just for "good measure." The technician rubbed on some cold, gooey liquid (a conductive fluid) and then began a gentle movement on my breasts with a wand about the size of a curling iron. She kept rubbing back and forth for some time in one particular area on my upper right breast. Then she excused herself and said she would be back in a couple of moments. I still felt no alarm. I had been through these exams before. Often we found cysts that were filled with fluid, which were then drained with a needle. Not the most pleasant experience, but part of the routine. I wasn't worried. Even when the technician...
