13. Radiology Next
We sit in Radiology and wait with a number of other people. I have my Kindle but find reading hard. The TV has some mindless morning show on that continually distracts me. An electronic number screen alerts patients to when they will get their turn. I don’t have a number. I try to imagine what they are here for and wonder if they realise I will actually be having my breast cut into in a few hours.
There seems to be lots happening around us, and staff are heading in all directions in a rush. There is a slight sense of panic and too many tasks for too few people. I wonder if every day is like this. Eventually I’m called and asked for my scans. Originally the surgeon kept them at my first appointment and I was told I’d need more, so I got copies from BreastScreen. I’m sent into a tiny cubicle to get into a gown. I gather there are some problems with my scans from comments I overhear. I’m told to wait and then I overhear ‘well where are the scans of the biopsy?’
When asked, I inform them that my surgeon kept mine and I had to get copies. Surely these organisations know what is required! One of the radiologists says if I don’t have the right ones they won’t be able to do the surgery. I feel panic rising. I HAVE to have it. I’m ready for it and I’m not going through this again and it’s not my fault.
Eventually they bring me into the scanning room and tell me it will be ok and they can manage with what they have. A student is in the room. Her name is Melissa and she’s from Echuca. They put the ultrasound on me and there seems to be some problem with where the tumour is compared with the location BreastScreen gave. The radiologist is saying ‘its not 3 o’clock, it’s more 4 o’clock’. Now the calm I have been maintaining threatens to shatter into hundreds of pieces. It doesn’t occur to me till later that at the clinic I was lying slightly turned with a pillow under my shoulder, here I am flat on my back. I hear him say, ‘No, I’ve got it, it’s this one’.
I ask loudly ‘What do you mean THIS one?’
He senses my panic and reassures me there is just the one tumour. He better mean it.
Next a doctor comes in to insert my hookwire. This is a fine gauge wire inserted into the breast under a local anaesthetic. First a small needle is inserted into the tumour and then a fine wire with a hook is inserted into the of the tumour with the aid of an ultrasound. It helps the surgeon locate the tumour during surgery. It all seems very rushed and the Doctor’s manner is not very relaxing and he strikes me as arrogant. The nurse is under pressure and he’s not making her day any easier, quibbling over needles sizes and wire gauges.
He says to the student in an accusing tone, ‘And who are you?’
I feel sorry for her. He sends her to sit at the head of the bed. I ask her to hold my hand and tell me about Echuca. She doesn’t know what to say, so I ask questions and talk about my family. It’s the best diversion therapy I know. I decide not to look at the screen as he gives me a local and inserts the needle and wire into the centre of the tumour. I feel nothing. He leaves, telling Melissa he gives her an ‘A’ for hand holding. The nurse is very apologetic, telling me how busy they are. She puts a dressing over my breast and tapes the wire that is sticking out of my breast down. The dressing is huge and I have what feels like sticky tape covering half my chest. I thank Melissa. I’m ushered out and put in a wheelchair. They collect my husband and I smile bravely at him, so he knows this wasn’t as bad as last time. Then we head up to Admission again. I’m getting to know this hospital rather well by now.