How tense can one woman get?

Just a week into this saga, and already I'm a neurotic, whingeing old gas bag.  I don't even recognise myself! Ok, so I haven't always been supremely confident, and I've never been a size 10, but since turning 40 I've been pretty much happy with me - and certainly not afraid to put my opinions/views across.  41, to now, has been a good age to be.  I have two different jobs, neither of which is mentally challenging, but the people I work with are wonderful, and they both fit in around school hours, which as a mum of four, is important.  I have a great, if often stroppy and demanding, husband, who I wouldn't swap for anyone except Richard E Grant (and possibly David Beckham, if he could just keep quiet.  All the time).  My elder children are strange and wonderful teenagers with excellent taste in music, endless appetites and filthy bedrooms, and my younger two are just young enough to still be cute, but old enough to pour their own juice.  I love my friends, adore my dogs (two dobermanns and two Lancashire Heelers), and I thought everything was humming along nicely, thank you.  Well, it was obviously too quiet for some great cosmic plan.

Back to the saga.  Obviously, the letter that the hospital had assured my GP was in the post - wasn't.  I ended up phoning the clinic yet again on the Wednesday to confirm the time/destination of my appointment (and reassure myself that they actually did have me on the system).

Drove by myself to the appointment (it's only a cyst, and don't really want my OH sitting outside whilst my boobs are squeezed in a clamp and x-rayed.  Saw the registrar, who took one look, then scribbled on a form and told me to go to radiography.  Just up the corridor, turn left.

I cannot fault how quick and sympathetic the staff were, even if the lady doing the mammogram commented on how uneven my breasts are (lefty has always been a good cup size bigger than righty).  It was actually the first time a medical professional had seemed surprised by the difference in size since I had a medical at boarding school by a male doctor who was surely past retirement age.  Didn't see him again during my two years there, but then neither did any of the other girls.  I think he just came in to have a quick grope, then disappeared until the following September. 

The mammogram was.. interesting.  Not as uncomfortable as I'd been led to believe, but certainly an unusual experience.  I had no idea my boobs could go that flat. Or that wide.  I did have a moment whilst balancing on one leg with my arm looped over the top of the machine when I wondered what would happen if I fell over.  Would the machine come with me, or would my breast remain in the machine, clamped forever, whilst I fell writhing to the floor spraying blood around in a scene worthy of Kill Bill?  Didn't happen, sorry - so can't actually answer that question.

Then off to ultrasound, where I chatted nonchalantly with the nurse while the (male) radiographer smeared cold jelly across my naked breasts.  I couldn't see the screen, but as I couldn't really make out my own babies on u/s, it wasn't like  I was going to have any useful input.  Then, biopsies.  'We're going to take two biopsies from your breast, and one from your lymph nodes.  There will be a strange noise and it sounds like this'.  It sounded like a dog clicker, and I thought for a moment I might get a reward, but no, it was just the biopsy flesh remover implement.  The breat biopsies were fine - just a bit of pushing around, but then we came onto the Fine Needle Aspiration of my armpit.  Sorry.  That hurt.  I think he was trying to reach my navel through my armpit, and I think he might just have succeeded.  All done, wait for the results, and back to the breast clinic.

The breast clinic was pretty much closed by the time I got back there, so I was straight through to be seen, as I think we were all desperate to go home by this point.  In retrospect, maybe I should have gone home first.. as the next few minutes were not good.

It's breast cancer.