Moving to Florida

Moving to Florida

I continued to purge the closets in an effort to decide what to take. I checked the property listings sent to me daily from the agent in Orlando. I had already been pre-approved by my lender. Then one day, I found one. I found a house in Casselberry, Florida. It met all my criteria. I called the agent and said let’s do it. I knew I had to be decisive and offer quickly, or it would be gone. I made an offer on a house, sight unseen. Two weeks later, it was the offer was accepted. I would arrive in town on July 2, just in time for the inspection.

In addition to packing, putting all my furniture in storage, and selling my old car, I also knew I had appointments I needed to make before my departure. I got my eye exam and my new glasses, got that crown I needed on my tooth, got my hair cut, and oh, yeah, my annual visit to the gynecologist. These are all very boring, mundane things that most women put off until they are leaving the area for good; I was that statistical, typical woman.

Dr. Te sent me for my screening mammogram, like so many times before. It had been over two years and I knew it was overdue, but so what? They always come back negative, so routine, a mere formality. How boring!

That is how it started, my entry into to “the system.” The system is like a meat processing plant, an assembly line of breasts. It always follow the same pattern, but sometimes with different outcomes. All women are treated the same, especially women of a certain age, like sheep, because we are so common. No one is unique.

The call comes, “You have to come back for a re-screening. They want to do a magnified image of your right breast. It’s probably nothing.” I agree. Most of these things turn out to be nothing. Another office, another screening, cold, impersonal, over quickly, slam, bam, thank you, ma’am. The radiologist comes out to speak to me. She does not know me, she is a total stranger. But she has given this speech thousands of times before to thousands of generic middle aged women, like me. “What kind of biopsy would you prefer, the invasive one, where they open you up, or the needle biopsy?” Oh, I would like the needle biopsy, naïve me, thinking that doesn’t sound too difficult or painful. No time off from work. I’m not concerned, most of the time these things turn out to be benign.

On, May 31^st, 2012, I report like a good little lamb to be biopsied in two places. The three, faceless, nameless ladies attending me assure me the worst part is the table. I put on a robe and am led to a scary, dark room, with a big machine. I know they are going to numb my breast, so I am not concerned about pain. I am asked to lay face down on a hard, hard table with my breast hanging through a hole. These technicians spend the next twenty minutes yanking on my breast and asking me to adjust my position. Occasionally they ask me my name and age, because they have forgotten who I am and they want everybody to know how old I am. It is extremely uncomfortable and hard on my back. Then the doctor enters the room. She crawls under the table and inserts a tube, not a needle, into an incision she has made in my breast and turns on the big machine. It makes a horrible noise! I have never felt so dehumanized in my life. I was thinking a slim needle, a little poke, draw out some cells, send it to the lab. No! This thing is a drill! No wonder they don’t tell you that! They are drawing out a core sample, like scientists who take core samples of the earth, or core samples of trees. Eventually, it is over. My breast hurts a lot in the two places where they drilled me. My breast will permanently have two indentations and hard lumps where the incisions were. My body aches, especially my back. The ladies ditch me to get dressed, humiliated, hurting, and head out the door, all alone. Dr. Te calls me the next day and tells me, “You’ve got breast cancer.”