I’ve been being told, since the tender age of 18, that my family history means I need to see a breast specialist immediately. That I should get genetic testing to better pinpoint my odds.
I’ve been referred to the specialists three times. 20, 25, and now.
The first time, I was told my family history was irrelevant, I was too young and wasting their time.
The second time, I was told no. That I should bully my fourth-grade-drop-out, Tylenol is an Unnatural Evil believing idiot of a mother into getting tested because it would be less expensive for them to do a single test on her, and then use those results for her children, than to do a test for me, for me to use on my children.
The fact that she laughed at me apparently just meant that I hadn’t explained it to her properly. A good mother, you see, would come in to get tested. You know. Like I was trying to do.
I’m mid-thirties. Every Gyno I’ve ever seen has expressed concern about breast cancer purely based off family history.
Gyno sent me over again, armed with yet more family history, yet more cancer found in the last few years.
Specialist finally let me in the building. Specialist took one look at my history and went, why didn’t you start seeing us at 25? OR before! You should have been getting this done for ten years at least! Don’t you know your odds, as of this paperwork alone, are double the average American woman? You should be getting a professional breast exam every six months!
Because You Would Not Let Me. YOUR people looked at that same paperwork and decided it wasn’t worth their time. I wasn’t worth the money.
Had my first mammogram today.
It took nearly 16 years, though.
And what kills me, I think, other than the fact that the mammogram itself took like ten minutes? What kills me is—
My partner suddenly realizing that all those times I’ve brought up cancer it was a lot more of a concern than he realized. What do you mean she said your risk on paper is probably above 30? That’s so high? Why didn’t the specialist see you earlier?
Because when he goes to the doctor, they just nod.
When he goes, they make all the phone calls. He gets to see the allergist. The nutritionist I was told no for, he’s already made an appointment for.
I get gentle hedging about how maybe I should lose a few pounds. I get laughed out of the office. I get baffled looks when I ask about early onset arthritis due to the Lyme disease and then nothing.
It took me 16 years of pointing at six different family members with four different types of cancer—two of them more than one! At the same time!— to get what should be basic care.
My partner is speed-running all those years of my quiet worry. All the things that could have gone wrong. All the things that can still go wrong, but now with the safety net of being cared for. All the worry I’ve been carrying about what I may have passed onto my kids.
And it took ten minutes in a pretty pink room.
