Not My First Rodeo (Cancerventures Book Excerpt)

“My times are in Your hands…”

Psalm 31:15

Cancer is scary. All faith aside. All scripture aside. Getting “a diagnosis” tests the best people of faith at their faith. I certainly didn’t think I was one of those “best people of faith.”

I was a woman. I was caught in a real moment.

So many of us out there attend too many rodeos, like this cancer experience. That’s part of the terror and the challenge.

It is not our first rodeo. We have had many close calls before “diagnosis” shows up in our lives.

Here’s mine.

…I tried to de-emphasize them as much as possible. I bound my breasts with more than one sports bra when it came to any physical activity.  

And I tried to believe the three of us could somehow peacefully coexist during my adult years. I’ll leave you alone; you two leave me alone.  

I managed my breasts, inconvenient as they were. And I always wondered if one day, they’d kill me.  

Tick, tick, tick… 

In 2003, I noticed a lump. It felt like a rubbery marble suspended in my breast. I immediately made an appointment with a doctor. She checked me out and determined I needed my first mammogram.  

So, I showed up, had my breasts trapped in between those cold hard slides and waited for the results. I braced for the worst. I expected to die (this will be a reoccurring theme). 

The results? Benign. And a new word, a new diagnosis: “Fibrocystic.” 

Apparently, because I had large breasts, I had this dense breast tissue. “Lots of women have this,” I was told. Nothing to be alarmed by. Keep doing your self-exams. 

Not my first rodeo…  

Jump to 2008. Another rubber marble lump. More distress, more “I’m dying.” I went in for another mammogram. But this time, I was called back for an ultrasound. They “spotted” something.  

That doesn’t sound good- “spotted.”  

So, more nervous waiting, Again, benign, again, Fibrocystic. 

I briefly met with a surgeon, going over my results. As I was given her business card, I also inquired about the need to pre-empt and get them removed before they caused any additional trouble. She said that was certainly a possibility; more women were doing just that. 

In the meantime, “keep doing your self-exams.” 

Let’s jump to 2013. Gee, what do you think happened again? 

Another rubber marble, another mammogram, necessitating another ultrasound. More fear, more death thoughts, more waiting. 

As I was led into the changing room for my ultrasound, a nurse, sporting a blonde pixie cut, uttered, “We’re going to hold a good thought now.” 

Waiting for the results, you guessed it: benign, Fibrocystic, “Keep doing your self-exams. 

Come back for your mammogram next year.” 

And apparently, now, I guess, “Hold a good thought.” 

And then, it was a different rodeo…  

So, let me set the stage. I waited for my June 2017 appointment with a gynecologist when there it was. On June 15th, a lump in my right breast got my attention. I, again, felt the rubber marble. It was most pronounced when I bent over. But this marble was different; it didn’t move with as much ease as the “others” did. It felt even more rubbery, in fact- a bit like an extension cord. I had days to go before my appointment (June 27th).  

Once there, I mentioned my findings; the doctor did a self-exam, and seemed calm, telling me she couldn’t feel anything, but, because of my track record, I should get a mammogram and ultrasound done just to rule anything out.  

I set it up for that Friday, June 30th. 

Joy* greeted… my husband, and me. She was the breast nurse navigator at the clinic who ushered us back to that imaging area and would handle these fun testing details.  *(Names of certain specialists are changed to protect privacy; that’s why I’m using alphabet letter names, or, in some instances, completely unisex names. I’m also going to refrain from using masculine or feminine pronouns, in some instances, for further identity protection. So, get used to me using “they,” “them,” and “their” to describe these individuals. Just know I’ve come across both male and female practitioners in my experience).  

I changed into that gown with blue/green ambiguous prints on it, open and untied in the front. I told the mammogram technician I felt more than one and wasn’t sure it was just a lone mass or if there was more going on. The technician gave me some little stickers to mark the site of the lumps I detected. 

For the lump I felt on the underside of my right breast, I told her I needed to lie down to tag it better. So, I was shown a room with the ultrasound equipment, a room I’d be in minutes later, and placed two stickers on the sites, hoping my version of pin the tail on the breast donkey was accurate enough.  

I returned to the mammogram room and waited to get flattened and stretched into the standard mammogram poses. I was squished by the cold plates and leaned into the machine, grabbing its handle, to get the underarm and node images necessary.  

And then I had a fun little conversation with the technician. Why not? I’m here in this gown.  

I asked her about the magic age to get mammograms. Was it forty or even forty-five?  

That last number sprang up because of my years of conflicting information in and out of the doctors’ offices. I had read and had been told on numerous occasions, that, because of my dense breasts, I didn’t need to get a mammogram every year, because the machines would likely detect the Fibrocystic tissue as tumors, even though they’d be benign. 

Not surprisingly, the technician responded with the standard recommendation: yearly mammograms, starting at age forty.  

And then she added a little flourish. “You want to adhere to that schedule. I’ve had women who waited too long for their mammograms and unfortunately, by the time they see me, they had to lose both of their breasts.” 

Yay, I had my answers- and a fun bit more. 

So, moving on to still more fun, the immediate ultrasound. I walked back into the room I left minutes earlier. And there, waiting for me, was (Hubby). He was sitting in a chair, tucked from view, next to the long privacy curtain drawn as a middle barrier between the “action” and the door. Still in my gown, the technician working the ultrasound informed me I could get up on the table, “the doctor will be in shortly.” 

Voilà! She appeared, shaking “nice to meet you” greeting hands with me. And then came the usual warm gel, followed by the ultrasound probe gliding across my breast area. There wasn’t much chit-chat here. The vibe I picked up on was that quiet was what was needed now. 

 Shhhh! Don’t disturb. As Elmer Fudd might say, “We’re huntin’ tumors!” 

So, up and down, side to side, my right breast was canvased. Eventually, the doctor asked me questions about how I came to discover the lump. I told her the boring details: I was used to my Fibrocystic lumpiness and one day earlier this month, I felt a lump which felt “different.” Hence, we’re all now gathered in this room talking about it. 

“Good job finding it while doing your self-exam!”’ 

(I could feel the doctor reaching for any positive spin). 

“Thanks.”  

And we’re temporarily quiet again. I just had to pipe up, “Yeah, I’ve heard that as long as they’re movable, that’s a better sign. What I felt seemed to be a little movable, but it did feel different…” 

(You can hear my bargaining plea, begging to please be told everything is okay). 

And then, there was awkward silence, followed by the doctor swiping the probe into my armpit, “Let’s check the nodes.” Nothing seemed to show up, the doctor appeared relieved. I was not. And poor (Hubby) in the chair. 

In my earlier conversation with the mammogram technician, I had mentioned previous records, and had given the contact information for the clinic to obtain them. Compare and contrast was the mission. Those records were faxed over and comparing and contrasting had taken place. The images, in fact, had changed. And not in a good way. 

After getting myself toweled off from the gel and changed, I was not surprised at what followed as we sat in the waiting room, just outside of the breast nurse navigator’s door.  

Once ushered in, Joy handed me an official letter from the doctor, using the term, 

“suspicious area.” She informed us we needed to schedule a biopsy. 

UH. OH. 

As we set up the appointment for July 7th, I took a “Biopsy Aftercare” pamphlet and I asked her, “So, if something turns up here, then what’s next?” 

“Surgery,” she responded. 

UH. OH. 

Tick, tick, BOOM? 

Copyright © 2025 by Sheryle Cruse