Kelly Corrigan's
memoir of growing up—
the first time,
and the second time. [Click here] ....................................
by Kelly Corrigan,
36 years old, Stage III Breast Cancer Survivor
Kelly writes a bi-monthly column on everyday life. If you'd like us to email her columns to you, click -->
Friday, August 6: The Biopsy
I checked in while Edward set us up with a spot in the waiting
room, unpacking our reading materials, preparing for a wait. As
I gave my name to the receptionist, I found that I was watching
myself from a distance, listening to my voice say my name.
“Corrigan…with a C…I’m here for a core needle
biopsy….Left breast…Yes, I have my mammogram films with
me…My husband is the primary on my insurance…an HMO….Dr.
Birenbaum referred me…”
It was only tolerable from a distance. I hovered above the scene,
watching the raw footage of a young mother delicately approach
cancer, respectful, humble, on her knees. It was outside me, it
was other, it was abstract performance art.
Edward had only just begun a Sports Illustrated article on Shaq
and Kobe when they called my name. “Here,” I said stupidly,
like a high school freshman, as I slid my magazine back into our
tote. Just last Saturday, that same tote carried 2 towels, sunblock
and a swim diaper to the pool where my daughters spend most Saturdays.
For 40 minutes, a nervous young doctor jammed a miniature harpoon
into various parts of the mass while a cheery nurse guided her
via a sonogram. With a slightly strained voice, the woman with
the instrument said things like “your breasts are so dense, so young, it’s
hard to get through the tissue.” I had stopped thinking of
myself as young. In the world of breast tumor biopsies, I was a
toddler.
There is a sick part of me, maybe all of us, that actually wanted
the sobering diagnosis, to prove that I know my body, that I am
not a hypercondriac looking for unwarranted attention. And given
the ongoing push-pull with my husband, who sees no danger in the
world (“she’s
not going to crawl out the window”) and me, whose imagination
runs towards the tragic (“is the window locked?”),
I almost wanted the lump to be a tumor so he would see that sometimes,
fears are justified. Sometimes, things actually happen.
Before we left, they told me I’d have significant bruising
and showed me 4 tissue worms floating in solution packed up in
a little plastic container. It had a sticker with my name on it.
