Thursday, Part 2 of 3.

(Warning for detailed descriptions of medical procedures.)

So Dean and I trudged down to the U/S department, where I was stripped, draped, anaesthetized (local) and where it suddenly struck me how different it is to be a patient in a hospital, as opposed to a doctor. I suppose a certain amount of objectivity about what was happening to me is part of my defence mechanisms, but when I saw the long core biopsy needle they were about to stick into me, I suddenly realized; I am the patient now.

It is one thing to be the doctor, standing beside the bed and explaining why this test is actually for the patient's benefit and that it will be done in 'as comfortable a manner as possible'. It is something completely different to be lying on the table, about to be on the receiving end. I've done core biopsies on people. They damn well hurt.

Dean gave me two fingers to hold - a technique he learned for labour, but I recommend it to anyone who is going to offer to hold the hand of someone who is going through pain. It prevents your hand being crushed. No need for both of you to suffer.

It took them ages to get ready, going back and forth between the U/S screen and the lightbox with the printed images from my scans earlier in the day. Finally, someone positioned the needle over the square of exposed skin, just beneath where the U/S probe was resting. I looked away. Not my job to be in control any more. All I had to do was lie still and endure until it was finished.

Clunk.

It was both a sound and a feeling. The deep thud of the spring mechanism merged with the jolt all through my body, and yes, it hurt. But it wasn't over. The needle had snagged on the lump deep inside my breast, and they were having to wriggle and twist to get it back out. I felt like a fish on a hook. The automatic spring was trying to retract with the sample, but it was also caught on my tissue. The tension felt like it was trying to pull the lump out through my skin without the benefit of surgery.

I controlled my breathing. Concentrated on just breathing. I knew that if I started crying or breathing irregularly, that would make their job more difficult. Lie still. Let them do their work.

Other people are in control and it hurts! Scream! Run! Make them stop! Do whatever it takes to get away!

No. Breathe. Just breathe.

Eventually, they were able to withdraw the needle from my skin. The precious sample went into the bottle of preserving fluid, and I finally allowed myself to take a deep, shaky breath.

"You are doing so well, just three more," soothed the radiologist.

Three more? I can't! I can't!

I couldn't speak. I kept my mouth closed and my face turned away. They continued anyway.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. 

Oh God, that's more than three! What are they doing to me? I just want to go home.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

After what I later found out was 12 biopsies, they finally had all the bits of me they needed. My jaw was sore from clenching my teeth and my throat was sore from all the screams I was swallowing.

Don't cry. Don't let go. If you start crying you might never be able to stop.

I finally managed to croak, "So, did you get milk out?"

No-one answered my question.

The ultrasonographer murmured something to the radiologist, at the same time as I noticed something  warm and wet running down out of the anaesthetized area. Sloppy gel probably. At least they warmed it up this time.

The nurse abandoned the sticky dressings she had been applying to my skin, and started applying direct pressure lower down, beyond the drapes obscuring my view of what they were doing. Dean stood up to look over at what they were doing.

"Size 8 sterile gloves. Now!"

I hadn't heard his surgeon voice before. It worked. In literally a few seconds he had on sterile gloves and was leaning across me. The amount of pressure four people were applying was becoming distinctly uncomfortable.

Not milk then.