These numbers are the results from last week’s visit with my internist for my annual check-up. Height, the same. Weight, the same. Cholesterol, TSH, vitamin D levels – all normal. The phlebotomist was so good I barely felt the needle stick in my arm — the right arm, ALWAYS the right arm, because it was the left side that was traumatized by the surgery and radiation. I still have to remind myself to tell the doctor’s assistant to use the right arm for the blood pressure cuff or needle. It’s not yet habit for me to remember this myself, and I don’t need to tempt another onset of lymphedema.
I didn’t expect to see anything scary on the report from my internist. After all, I am in quite good health (oh, except for that bout with cancer).
The previous week, I anxiously awaited the results of the annual mammogram and MRI scan. The current guidelines for mammograms vary depending on whom you ask. Anyone who’s interested in or affected by these guidelines likely knows the ongoing controversy around the usefulness and timing of the test. Agencies and physicians change their minds frequently about what’s appropriate.
Given that mammograms are less reliable in people like me who have dense breast tissue, I am extremely reluctant to put my faith in them, especially since they did not show the tumor that caused me so much grief. Still, my oncologist insists I have one each year, and my radiologist says that, though it isn’t perfect, it’s the best test we have. (To which I say, it’s about time we come up with something better.)
So, every year around this time, I trek to the radiology center to undergo the test. Four years past my diagnosis, my anxiety about the test now only kicks in as I don the cape in the dressing room, not several days beforehand. And because the same radiologist has been viewing my images and so knows me (or at least my breast tissue) pretty well, he makes a point of coming to tell me the results before I can even leave the building.
They say your diagnosis is only as good as the radiologist reading the images. I’d also say, regardless of the diagnosis, the effect of the results on the patient is only as good as how (and how soon) the radiologist delivers them. The longer the wait, the higher the anxiety spikes. A face-to-face conversation or a phone call the same day trumps a form letter a week later, even when the news is good.
People sometimes wonder why someone would not go to see a doctor if there is something wrong. It comes down to this – if you ask a question, you’ll usually get an answer. Anxiety is what tells you the answer might not be what you hope for. If you never ask the question, you never have to hear the answer, and so some people never ask.
Immediately after Dr. P came to report the results to me (“Everything looks OK”), I was taken to the other side of the building for an MRI, something I’ve asked for each year since the end of treatment. It’s not customary to have an MRI unless the doctor suspects there’s something to find, and the MRI has some inherent problems as well, but I have asked for it precisely because the mammogram is unreliable for me. And my oncologist has readily agreed. This is no small agreement as the test costs about 2 thousand dollars (which alone spikes the anxiety level) and, as my oncologist reported to me last time I saw him, he’s starting to see insurance companies refuse to cover the MRI unless the patient has current signs or symptoms needing attention. I can understand insurance companies wanting to cut unnecessary costs, but peace of mind is always necessary. With the results of the mammogram coupled with the MRI, I can be reasonably sure that we’ve got a good picture of what is (or isn’t) going on.
Lucky for me, our current insurance approved the test — at least for this year — and Dr. P reported, when he called the next day, that “All looks good this year.”
With this good news, and the normal numbers from the internist this week, my anxiety has dropped from stratospheric to just atmospheric, where it should stay till my check-up with the oncologist in November.