A friend went into treatment for breast cancer the same week I got my scary letter. She was so matter of fact about the chemo and the possible surgery, she was unwittingly a good influence on what was about to happen to me.
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I've had mammograms every two years since forever. Started in my 40s because of no reason except my family history is largely unknown and I have an unreasonable fear of dying early. Not really unreasonable. Dad died just as I left school. Mum died when I was 26. But – in terms of breast cancer – as far as I know, there is none in my family.
As the Cancer Council says, the biggest risk factors for developing breast cancer are being a woman and getting older. That's me. So whenever I get the reminder text from BreastScreen to set up an appointment, I'm on it. What's a little bit of breast smooshing when it could buy me more time?
I love my breasts. Fun, useful, practical. Even as a young girl, I liked them. I never in any serious way agonised over shape or perkiness, even when they were the size of peak season rockmelons during breastfeeding, I'd think, wow, impressive! Attractive to their owner, also a food source. Part of my identity.
BreastScreen Australia does an excellent job of targeting women like me – aged between 50 and 74 – because three-quarters of those who get breast cancer are over 50. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer before the age of 85. The screening is free. We are so lucky in this country.
So off I trotted to get my mammogram. Two weeks later, a letter arrived at home with the BreastScreen logo. Rip, fumble.
"We would like you to return to have further tests to complete your screening."
The. Worst.
The letter itself is filled with reassurance – one in 20 women who've had a mammogram will require a further test. Of those who do come back, 90 per cent will find there is no visible evidence of breast cancer. "For the other 10 per cent, the earlier a diagnosis of breast cancer is made, the better a woman's chance of surviving the disease."
I run into my house from the mail box, lie on the bed, start feeling for something, anything, that appears different. Then I ring to make my follow-up appointment because sure as hell, my heart will explode if I have to wait for the time provided in the letter.
Ask anyone who knows me, I'm pushy as anything. But the calm woman on the other end of the phone who answers my call isn't having any of it. There are many women needing to get into BreastScreen. She pauses. "Looks like we've got a cancellation for Monday."
I book sick leave because it's going to take hours. It does. First, more images. Then more of them. The radiologists and nurses are kind. I'm not crying even when they show me the lump which looks like a small marble.
They tell me I have to have a biopsy. In fact, the hottest breast surgeon in Australia – possibly the planet – explains what's going to happen to me. I can't be in too much emotional distress if I notice he's unbelievably handsome. He says that the mass itself is small. I think he's trying to say that the smaller the better – early detection saves lives.
The nurse suggests I go away and have some lunch. I'd rather puke than eat.
When I return from what was possibly a perfectly pleasant toasted chicken sandwich, I sit and wait. All around me, women are coming and going, tears, no tears, hollow-eyed, anxious daughters hugging their greyed mothers. Nurses and doctors whispering. We are all in the same appalling hospital gowns with fasteners which don't fasten.
I bring my work with me as a weapon, sick day or not, because it's a blessed distraction. Plus, students need marks no matter what's happening to me.
Finally the time for biopsy arrives. A different doctor chit chats about the procedure. Tells me what to do if it hurts. Shows me on the screen the lump she's going to drill. Left breast 11 o'clock, seven centimetres from nipple. For a moment, I love the fact that exploring my breasts requires a map and directions.
Biopsy needle goes in. The doctor squints at the screen, enlarging the image. Then she says to the nurse, "it's not there any more". They bring others in to have a look at the images. They all agree they can't see it any more.
The medical language is this: Lesion collapses on first pass.
Whatever it was, it disappeared when it was punctured. Probably a cyst.
High fives all round. I return briefly on Thursday for a confirmation that whatever it was, it wasn't cancer. The letter says: "No evidence of malignancy is seen in the tissue provided."
I am so relieved I could cry but I don't. Instead I start to ring all my friends and nag. So many of them don't get checked out regularly. I'm turning into the mammogram monitor.
Book your mammogram now. It might locate strange disappearing cysts but it finds cancers before you can.
Jenna Price is an academic at the University of Technology Sydney.
Twitter: @jennaprice | Facebook: facebook.com/jennapricejournalist
