Kelly Corrigan's
memoir of
growing up—
the first time,
and the second time.
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....................................

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 -->

Wednesday, August 4
There must have been 20 women in the waiting room of the imaging center where I got my mammogram. It felt like the DMV with carpet. The women in the seats were mostly older, and all of them appeared healthy, bored and casual. When they called me back, a chipper woman explained that she'd be taking 2 pictures of each breast and it shouldn't take more than a couple minutes. When she was wedging my breast between the plates, I said, "Ever since breast feeding, my boobs are just empty bags. I bet you can get those plates to kiss." She seemed genuinely impressed to see that I could get the plates to just 4 centimeters apart.

She left me in there with an Elle Decor while she took my films to the doctor. In the time it took to flip through the magazine, she was back.

"The doctor asked me to take a few more pictures, so come on up here and let's get it over with real quick," she said, in a tone of forced lightness. I remember closing my eyes for a moment before I stood up, a flash of doom passing through me.

I kept a close eye on her as she manipulated my breasts. We were just a few inches apart and it seemed reasonable that if she knew something dreadful already, I would be able to see it, or smell it. I didn't ask any questions, like Is it unusual that the doctor wants more pictures? or Was the machine acting up?, but I thought them. She moved quickly and was out of the room again in no time. I paged through the same Elle D≥cor, without actually taking any of it in. I was grinding my teeth.

"Ms. Corrigan, Dr. White would like to talk to you about your films. Why don't you put your clothes on and I'll walk you back to his office." I got a funny taste in my mouth and started to dress in silence.

The old, uncomfortable doctor who read my mammogram films stared at a file on his desk while he explained that I should have a biopsy as soon as possible.

"I am concerned about the tumor, the mass," he said, seemingly to his desk. "I am putting you for a core needle Friday morning so you will come back to this building then."

I didn't follow him totally but I did manage to ask why he was concerned. He said the mass looked like an explosion. That's the very word he used. I didn't speak after that. I nodded a lot but words were beyond me. I was a 4 year old lost at the mall, red hot tears pouring down my face, not one-off tears, more like the beginning part of a waterfall, where the little streams find each other and collect into something stronger before it tips over the edge. I could see that my reaction made him terribly uneasy but not so uneasy that offered up any hope. He didn't say, "Oh I see I have alarmed you. Don't get ahead of yourself. Many times, these mammogram films are misleading." He said, "You can be here Friday then? At 10am?" I nodded.