When I first moved to Korea, I had to have a medical exam where they gave me a chest x-ray; I assume they were looking for tuberculosis or other things etc. I was nose-first against a giant red square, and the technician pushed me closer but it was over in moments. When I moved to Busan a month later, I had to get the tests and x-ray done again. The health departments, education departments- all the departments believe the others are somehow faulty or incompetent, and so I got the x-rays a second time. It took longer this time, and I noticed an extra pressure against my chest on one side- not painful, but like something was pushing back.
I promptly forgot about it in the process of dealing with other things- the infested apartment, the horrible living conditions, getting used to a new job/schedule/people (again). During the course of the move, I got sick- some sort of respiratory infection that just would not go away. I put off going to the doctor in the hopes that I could just willpower my way through it.
No such luck.
It was around this time (mid September) that I remembered the odd sensation. I checked it out and discovered, to my horror, that there was something in my breast. Like the brilliant and wise person I am, I chose to monitor it over the course of a month and make sure it wasn't related to other bodily functions etcetc.
Early October I came to the conclusion I needed to see a doctor about the never-ending-undying cold-of-death, and decided to book a double appointment through an english-speaking nurse at the hospital. The way doctors and hospitals work in South Korea is a bit different from home- sure you have the usual trauma/emergency services/etc, but in the same building you'll also have ENTs and podiatrists and general surgeons (or surgeon generals, I'm never quite clear on the difference.). It's like a one-stop shop for what ails you.
I arrived at Dong-A Medical Center a few minutes early, not sure what to expect, incredibly nervous and stressed and on edge.The nurse met me at the door and guided me through the (seemingly to me) complex process of checking in, seeing the respiratory doctor, checking out from them, and walking down three flights of steps to check in with the general surgeon. She was nice and friendly and incredibly professional, and set me a bit more at ease.
Once we arrived at the GS, I showed him the area. He immediately ordered a sonogram before he'd even really done anything. Unfortunately, because of the hours of the hospital and my schedule, it would have been three weeks before I could have one at Dong-A. The nurse put me in contact with a hospital the specializes in boob stuff.
At this point I still hadn't told my mother.
At this point I still hadn't told anyone.
At this point, it was incredibly difficult to keep it together, to keep working and teaching with the unknown hanging over my head.
I scheduled a sonogram with the specialty hospital- the incredibly well-named "Mother's Breast Hospital". Their logo is the outline of a pair of breasts, complete with nipples. Awkward, right?
The sonogram technician knew very little English, and the gel stuff was cold, and absolutely everything about the experience was uncomfortable. I'm not the kind of person who's incredibly comfortable with people I don't know touching me in general- this was stressful and uncomfortable and a whole bowlful of other synonyms. I could see the sonogram screen, and as she passed the lump, it showed black, a gaping darkness in my chest that swallowed me up and spilled out as stressed, silent tears.
I was a mess by the time I saw the doctor, sniffling, tissue pressed to my face as if that could keep the anxiety at bay. He informed me my best choice was to perform a core needle biopsy to find out exactly what was happening. So I said yes.
Basically, they stuck a giant, hollow needle through the mass in my breast- like how they research climate change by removing ice cores from the coldest places of the world. But with boobs. Same idea, different medium. They patched me up and sent me home with the promise of results the next week.
This was when I told my mother and tried to keep it together and failed horribly. This was when I went to lunch with my coworkers and couldn't hold a conversation and when they asked what was wrong I couldn't even get a word out before I was sobbing in fear and anguish and anxiety. Luckily for me, I have some awesome, supportive people in my life and this meltdown wasn't seen as the catastrophic collapse it was in my mind, but instead as the appropriate response to something horrific.
A week came and went.
The needle biopsy came back benign and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. They recommended I have the lump removed anyway, because of its size (which they said was a hockey puck but I am sure there was something lost in that translation).
The month of November passed in indecision and the happy stress of moving into a new (gorgeous) place.
I had the surgery in December. The fear was back, choking my throat when the nurse asked for my name, shaking my hands as I removed my clothing in exchange for a scratchy hospital pajamas, making my breath shallow as they used a sonogram to mark the incision. They draped a thick green canvas over me and took my glasses. Local anesthesia, silent crying, and twenty minutes later, the doctor came around to show me a pink blob, about the size of a bouncy ball. While I appreciate the thoroughness, I really could have done without seeing that lump of stress and worry removed from my chest.
I was stitched up and wrapped around like Mulan (swift as the coursing river) and taxi'd home. The next day I came in to get a normal, large bandage and sent out with the warning not to get the site wet (or feed it after midnight, but that was totally implied).
Showering with plastic taped to your boob is not pleasant, let me tell you. Highly do not recommend as a leisure activity.
Which brings us to last Saturday, when I returned to have the liquid stitches dissolved and peeled away and to get the final pathology report- which was NEGATIVE for cancer and deemed the lump a fibrocystic change. Cue the celebration!
Now I all I have to do is to monitor the site for any infection/ insure proper healing and come for a follow up in six months. I feel so incredibly relieved.
