The fun challenge about ageing is that you have to become comfortable with death. After hitting 35, you're no longer a young person. Your lovely (and false) sense of security, that sense of life stretching out ahead of you with no end in sight, is gone. You're suddenly in the age bracket for things like declining fertility, all things 'middle-aged' and cancer. 35 is the line in the sand it seems, defined by the medical community. The community that makes a killing off our collective fear of dying.
On Sunday, I woke up with a sore breast. I'm neither breastfeeding nor pregnant, so it seemed suspicious. Soon, the symptoms of mastitis followed, then subsided within 24 hours. All this while the medical centre was closed for Easter. Turns out, 24 hours is plenty of time to panic about cancer. Why is it that my mind automatically travels to the 'worst possible outcome' at the sight of anything strange? By Wednesday morning, I was quite happy to see a doctor, to put an end to all this. But that's not how it works.
I was examined and lumps were found. Lumps that may or may not have been there before. Lumps that were 'suspicious'. So I was asked whether I wanted to pay 300 something to see a specialist or wait in line to be served by the public health care, some time within this year. Since we're leaving for Finland in three weeks, I opted for paying. I was referred immediately and made it to the flashy building in Epsom that same afternoon, still naively thinking that this way I would 'get things sorted' or whatever. What followed was a 250-dollar meeting discussing my medical history and scanning my breasts, which seemed to contain a myriad of stuff, all of which 'looked benign' - collection of cysts and a very common fibroadenoma or two. The breast infection was probably caused by one of the cysts bursting (being constantly kicked / elbowed by a toddler may be a factor here). It was reassuring, but really a side issue. We were now looking at the possible fibroadenoma, which was the size and shape of a marble.
In the end, there were no definitive answers to put my mind at ease. Apparently, with younger women even the malignant tumours often appear benign. Also, the equipment wasn't quite expensive enough to show a super clear picture of what was going on. Some of the cysts may have been fibroadenomas or the other way around. So, a better scan for an extra $200 was needed, as well as a biopsy of the masses, for another $800, plus $70 extra for each tiny lump.
I left the office with FEAR and REASON fighting over my brain. Reason said "why scan something again if you still need a biopsy after that? Why not just biopsy the big lump to make sure it's benign? Or better yet, why not just trust that if it looks benign, it is benign? I can always get in line for another scan in the public sector later on." To which Fear whispered "Cancer...". That's how it works. That's why the doctors buy houses and I probably never will. I will buy expensive ultrasound pictures of my breast, to hang on the wall of our rental home, using pre-existing nail holes as per our rental agreement.
If we can manage the fear, we are free to question the procedures and make rational choices. It's not easy. Not even with all the money in the world. Look at Angelina Jolie. Fear drives us to make drastic choices and even harm ourselves. As the technology gets better, we can detect cancers before they're even cancers. It seems the detection methods become better and better, while the invasive treatments stay the same. So that you can literally fry and radiate yourself to get rid of the IDEA of cancer.
Truth is, we all have limited time on this planet. We ALL have cancer. With some, it hasn't activated yet. With some it never will, because they die of other causes before their cells get confused. But we all get older and our bodies will start making mistakes. It's unavoidable. You can lead a healthy lifestyle and maybe score yourself some extra time. But the only thing you really have control over is your attitude, your willingness to live each of these days leading up to death.
No comments :
Post a Comment