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Hi Lorraine,

I’m in a total panic mode! I had my annual routine mammogram the other day. First of all, there’s no such thing as routine when you’ve got these augmented surgically enhanced breasts. When I made this superficial decision 8 years ago—remember, I was so tired of crying all the time due to my impending divorce, I wanted a MAJOR DISTRACTION, I forgot about the real life stuff like having to go to a special imaging machine to have my breasts AND implants squished flat like a pancake (like my before-enhancement breasts).

The boob-flattening technician was making me really nervous. She would not stop talking…she was blathering on and on about her husband and straight A student kid. I wanted to take her head and flatten in on the machine. First of all, out of four kids, I never experienced anything close to the “problems” of a straight A-kid so any talk of that makes me feel inferior and guilty. Secondly, I wanted her to stop talking so she could actually be thorough and precise and take good pictures of my breasts so I could be worry free.

Well, I just got off the phone with my doctor. She said that I need to go back in for a “retake” because the radiologist read my mammogram and saw a SHADOW! A shadow?!! Lorraine, a shadow sounds dark, scary and ominous. It sounds like the knock on the door before you get really bad news. It smacks of BREAST CANCER, which smacks of surgery, loss of breasts, chemotherapy, and in my ever-positive mind…DEATH. I am so not ready for that.

My doctor is acting as if she’s called to tell me I have a normal PAP smear. She’s telling me that “this is no big deal and it happens all the time”. I tell her I’m getting ready to go on vacation and that there’s no way I can go on vacation when I have death staring me in the face. Packing swimsuits and my will isn’t my idea of a good time.

She tells me to “Relaaaaax”…just wait until I get back. Well, she can fuhget about that. I’m going to start calling any hospital that will get me in ASAP. I’m low on my Xanax and I need to save it for the plane trip!

Mary,

Is this “just relax” attitude from your doctor akin to the adage “just take a Valium and call me in the morning? That’s a lot easier said than done when told there may be a crisis pending.

I would say you HAVE to have this checked out before your vacation, or it will not be a vacation. It will be a week in slow motion with an underlying feeling of unease, which will be masked by lots of fake smiles and forced laughs.

I had the same shadowy experience minus the special machine for fake boobs, but the difference between your experience and mine was timing and the mail - and I almost went “postal” after my mammo experience.

Last year, I went for my mammography and a few days later received, by mail, that happy message giving me a clean bill of health regarding my breasts. I breathed a sigh of relief…for at least the next 364 days, assuming I do as I should and conduct my own monthly breast exams.

ONE MONTH later I receive a piece of paper, by mail, explaining that all was NOT correct with my most current mammogram. ONE MONTH…it took 30 DAYS to get this right?! I read on as the letter says there is a SHADOW and that I need to call and schedule a “cone mammography”. I have no idea what a “cone mammography” is, but any breast photo inclusive of the word “cone” does not sound like a bucolic summer day eating ice cream.

Besides being confused and upset I was angry…angry because of the inefficiency and lack of communication between all departments, including my gynecologist. 30 days could equal lost time if this “shadow” turned out to be cancer.

I was in a panic mode and practically ready to give my husband “the talk” about funeral music, bagpipes and type of coffin.

Long story longer, I have the cone mammography. I didn’t wait long for the results as the female tec came in with a nonchalant attitude saying, “You can get dressed, we didn’t find anything”.

WHAT? You saw something 30 days ago and now you don’t? AND I am supposed to take your word for it?? I am still feeling lost, confused and lied to. I choke back some tears of fear and ask to see the radiologist that just read my films. The tech acts like the radiologist will be annoyed BUT I DON’T CARE…. I know I cannot leave this office without complete confidence that there is nothing of any consequence on this film. They’ve lost my trust and I don’t want to receive another confusing set of messages via the mail 3 months from now.

The radiologist assures me that the shadow, which is no longer a shadow, was nothing.

I walk out of the office feeling relieved that my films are clear, but still shaken at the way I was treated as a patient.

I decide that the inept and cavalier method of communication between the office where the films were taken, and my current gynecologist are just not professional enough for me.

As my own best health advocate I realized I had to find another gynecologist and another hospital to take care of my annual needs.

Thank goodness my mammography story has a happy ending. I can only stress the importance of asking questions and demanding answers. If in the end you are not satisfied…find another doctor!!
Lorraine,

First we have to clear something up. I take great offense at your reference to my gorgeous firm breasts (granted the only thing firm on my body) as “fake boobs”. I can assure you that they are 100% pure saline and nothing else. Saline is a natural substance and there’s nothing fake about them.

Your fake shadow story is scary. Scary because this kind of ineptness has happened to many other women with the not so happy ending.

Well, thanks to my sister who happens to work in radiology at her hospital, I got in this morning! This technician was professional and didn’t say a word about her husband and smart kids. Good thing—I’d brought some duct tape with me just in case. Same good news as yours, but I couldn’t help but wondering as I was writing another check for $250 (before the radiologist fee), how much money is being made by all these “Phantom Shadows”.

Ok, now I can pack my bags for my dream vacation and when I’m there, I’m going to dream about a world where insurance companies don’t dictate my health care and suspicious mammograms don’t end up in the wrong pile.

And…I’m going to appreciate my healthy natural saline breasts as they’re popping out of my teensy weensy bathing suit top.

Lorraine, we think the medical system is scary. I’ll tell you what’s scary—how quickly I can go from mature wise woman to superficial denial-of-age ditz.

Mary

Lorraine had turned 50 several years ago and had uncharacteristically become a big time procrastinator, when it came to scheduling her colonoscopy. Being her best friend, and fellow procrastinator, I told her I’d be there to offer any help she might need.

On the fateful day before the dreaded colonoscopy, I had to face my own fears. It just so happened that PAT CONROY, my most FAVORITE author in the world (Prince of Tides, The Great Santini, Beach Music, etc.), a man who writes so beautifully I worship the literary ground he walks on, just happens to live down the street from Lorraine. I was obsessed with meeting him.

For years when I’ve visited Lorraine, I’ve sworn to her and myself that during one of those visits I was going to brazenly knock on the door of this extraordinary writer and simply stand there to bask in his presence. I wanted to soak him up the way I’ve soaked up his words…maybe stammer something and get him to sign one of his books before he called the police.

I felt I had missed my window of opportunity. I needed some wine for that act of bravery and I had given up my favorite Chardonnay (let’s just say the Chardonnay and I had a personality clash). I decided there was no time like the present, so before Lorraine started drinking all the gallons of “how to cleanse your entire bodily system through one tiny hole in 3 hours” liquid, I was trying to decide if I was going to suck it up, be rude and unannounced and knock on Pat Conroy’s door…and do it without the anesthesia of the wine. I always knew there was the comfortable option of wimping out. Lorraine thought she had it bad—I was a nervous wreck.

Lorraine: Okay, let me step in here and say that right before I had to start my 6-8 hour rendezvous with my bathroom, Mary insists that we both hop in the car so she can meet the man of her literary dreams.

I don’t have time for this. I’m already having images of having to imitate the millions of American men who, on a daily basis, disappear for incalculable amounts of time on the “throne” with magazines and newspapers in tow. My anxiety level is increasing by the minute. I know I have to start watching the clock as I have a designated “go time”.

As Mary is blathering on and on about needing to ruin any potential relationship with my famous neighbors, I’m ruminating about my impending colonoscopy.

Mary is completely self-involved and anxiously pacing around the house trying to drum up the nerve to be rude while I’m pondering what it is I’m so fearful of. The last time I had routine surgery, which required general anesthesia, I had a great time! I had fallen into a gentle state of slumber and after waking up, felt groggy but relaxed. I’m looking at the bright side and telling myself that this procedure will afford me a much-needed perfect little nap due to nightly menopausal sleep deprivation.

I reminded myself that the whole procedure lasts about 15 minutes, tops. And, God forbid, if somewhere along the serpentine trail they come upon any polyps, they can snare these as easily as the shoe storeowner who hooks me with the “two for one” sale.

I realized what really was making me sweat was the thought of the ominous jug of God knows what that I was soon to be downing in great measure. The day before, when I went to the pharmacy to pick up “the preparation”, I was cruelly deceived when I was given the teensy weensy 16 ounce bottle of magnesium citrate that comes in cutesy flavors like lemon-lime or raspberry. I started walking away reassuring myself that throwing back this fruited water would be a breeze when suddenly the pharmacist (with a smirk on his face) called me back to the counter.

Waiting for me on said counter was a LARGER THAN LIFE PLASTIC JUG with a threatening sandy granular substance on the bottom. The instructions shouted, “FILL TO THIS LINE WITH COOL WATER AND HAVE AT IT!”

The Jug-o-Laxative is enough to make me want to postpone this event for at least another year. I was further justifying this by telling myself I had no family history of colon cancer. I’m now in total denial convincing myself that scheduling this appointment is just more evidence that I’m a neurotic hypochondriac!

I’m interrupted with my important thoughts by the sound of Mary jingling the car keys in her hands.

Mary: Ok, well, whatever. I had plenty of sympathy for Lorraine and her double date with Mr. Jug-O-Lax and Mr. Toilet, but I was on a mission and I needed to get Lorraine in the car for my own date with destiny before I changed my mind.

Lorraine is reluctant but also sees the light that my imminent brazenness will serve as a major distraction for her. We get in the car and pull up to GOD CONROY’S house.

I knocked on the door and Pat Conroy’s wife, Cassandra King (a well-respected author in her own right), answered the door. I had come prepared with copies of each of their latest books in my desperate-for-an-autograph hands.

I prattled on and on about how rude I was, how I was a big fan and not a serial killer, blah blah blah. Sandra, being the true Southern woman that she is, was gracious and invited me into their home! Yes—I made it in! I furiously motioned to Lorraine (who had chosen the safer route of wearing sunglasses and slumping down in her car).

We ended up spending a wonderful time with Sandra (yes, we’re now on a first name basis). We talked about marriage, divorce, children, hormones, mid-life and our upcoming books. We laughed, poked fun at our husbands and stayed only long enough so that we didn’t start smelling like garbage.

Pat (might as well be on a first name basis with him) was gone for the day and Sandra assured us that the next time I came out for a visit, we should come over for a drink. Lorraine’s warning glance in my direction stopped me from immediately pulling out my day timer to set up a date and time.

We all felt like we had made a great new friend, and as we walked out, Sandra said she was so glad that I had knocked on the door. I told her that I was a therapist and that when my clients expressed fear about any anxiety-producing situation, I ask them what is the worst thing that can happen to them. And, can they live with that? I told Sandra I figured the worst thing that could happen to me is that she would slam the door in my face. Heck—I’ve survived four teenagers—I could certainly handle a door slamming incident—at least that wouldn’t include underage drinking tickets, school pranks and the police.

Lorraine and I got back in the car feeling ecstatic. When we got back to the house, it was now time for Lorraine to get down and dirty.

Lorraine: I live on a quiet island in South Carolina and Mary had done the totally unthinkable when it comes to disturbing our claim-to-fame resident writers. Even personal visitors only get a “drive by” when it comes to the Conroy clan and their quiet oasis on the island.

I have to admit, as I sat in my car and watched Mary disappear into the house, I marveled at her bravery AND unmitigated gall! I only hoped that her knock-knock at their door didn’t mean total humiliation and talk on the island about Lorraine and her “friend”. This island is small…and word of any type of intrusion gets around!

So you can imagine my glee and relief when I saw Mary re-appear and wave me into the house. We did have a wonderful visit with a wonderful person. Because of Sandra’s down-to-earth hospitality, we soon realized it was ok to act like normal adults and not star struck fanatics (which quite frankly was more Mary’s problem than mine).

Back at my house, Mary and I were still so excited from our visit that we could hardly contain ourselves. Our cell phones came out immediately and we lit up the lines as we called friends and family to tell them of our good fortune.

In the midst of our jubilation, my clock was telling me I was at the starting gate when it came to the liquid laxative. The dread was short lived as Mary and I were still laughing and reminiscing about our recent coup, so the deed of downing it all didn’t seem so daunting.

I started with the citrate magnesium. Mary sat anxiously as she watched me take the first couple of sips and almost seemed sadistically happy to let me be the guinea pig.

I told her that the berry tasting stuff wasn’t so bad. I actually drank the first glass in two or three gulps. Good…Step 1 done. Now I awaited the gurgling stomach and the anticipation of drinking 8 more ounces every ten minutes until the contents of the GIANT JUG were gone.

After that was done (YIPEE SKIPEE), we were both at our laptops watching a Lifetime movie when the phone rang.

Assuming it was some kind of annoying sales call, I answered the phone in a huff. On the other end was Sandra Conroy! Now at this point you can imagine my total excitement. I am stammering, stuttering and spitting into the phone while at the same time trying to grab Mary’s attention. I’m trying to make some semblance of intelligible responses to Sandy while doing jumping jacks and madly pointing at the phone to get Mary’s attention while she was being mesmerized by the latest Lifetime drama.

My efforts at charades finally paid off and Mary realized who I was talking to and started joining me in the jumping jacks. I got off the phone and gave her the spectacular news, “THE CONROYS WANT TO KNOW IF THEY CAN COME OVER AND HAVE A DRINK WITH US!!!”

So much for my plan of spending my night upstairs nears “the facilities” and Mary remaining comatose in front of the boob tube. Things had drastically changed, and at the same time, so did my bowels…

Mary: As Lorraine was attempting to drink the gazillion billions of liquid lax, we settled down on the couch like expectant parents waiting for labor to start. When the phone rang and Lorraine started acting like a deranged teenager on steroids, I took notice. When she told me the CONROYS were on their way over, I went a little crazy myself.

As Lorraine was loosing her bowels, I was screaming and running around with excitement while silently cursing myself for not taking those Kegel exercises more seriously. Between Lorraine and I, we were loosing more bodily fluids than a newborn baby.

Lorraine got out of her PJ’s and stopped drinking the colonic concoction and decided she could finish that later. We had company coming!

Within minutes, we saw the headlights of their approaching car. A knock on the door…and there was gracious Sandy and the MAGNIFICENT PAT CONROY, a striking man with shocking white hair…both with big smiles on their faces.

I looked at Pat and said, “Oh, we’re so glad you called and asked if you could come over.” He looked me straight in the face and said without a flinch, “Well, I figured the worst thing you could to is slam the door on my face!” I was stunned. He was using my line. PAT CONROY WAS USING MY LINE!

The next 2 hours were spent in great conversation, exchanges of funny stories, and new friends made. As they were getting ready to leave, and Pat had signed his book for me, he turned to us and said, “Hey, would you like me to write a blurb for your book?”

Lorraine and I went into immediate mouth paralysis. Did we really just hear that? THE GREAT PAT CONROY offering us humble amateur writers his endorsement of our soon-to-be-published-in-France book? We could only reply, “Oui! Oui!

When they left, we both collapsed on the floor stupefied.

After time spent regurgitating the events of the day, Lorraine realized she had to get back to the dreaded drudge drainer while I continued to sit on the couch with a dazed look on my face.

Lorraine: The surprise Conroy visit was a brilliant interruption from my rear end reality. I reluctantly put the celebrity visit behind me and hit what was left in the jug.

Later, as I was drifting off to sleep, I happily concluded that that Mr. and Mrs. Conroy could come crash my pre-colonoscopy party any time.

**Afterthought: During Lorraine’s routine colonoscopy, despite there being no family history of colon cancer, a precancerous polyp was discovered. The offensive polyp was completely excised preventing Lorraine from a grim and potentially fatal diagnosis down the road. Mary bit the bullet and had her colonoscopy several months later upon which she was given a clean bill of health. We strongly encourage all men and women fifty years and older, to love themselves and their families enough to get this life-saving procedure.