In observance of breast cancer awareness month, I would like to share my own personal story. Last week, I had a breast examination at Planned Parenthood, as it was the most accessible and affordable women’s health alternative for the uninsured. I had been experiencing a significant amount of pain in my left breast. It was a combination of pins, needles and a burning sensation which pulsated from the nipple all the way up and through my left arm pit. The nurse practitioner conducted a very thorough examination; one that I will undoubtedly repeat at home. She discovered several cysts; at least one on both sides. She subsequently wrote a referral for me to have a diagnostic mammogram and a bilateral breast sonogram, noting that I had “multiple rope like cysts”. Planned Parenthood is good for providing additional financial resources for patients without insurance, so they gave me a list of providers who would perform the needed services for a reduced cost. I immediately went home and began to make calls, beginning with the provider listed at the top. But not before I sat in my car for about fifteen minutes, analyzing the enormity of the moment, the possible implications and the fear. Unquestionably, the reality of that moment is that far too often, they are a death sentence waiting to happen. Although, I had yet to be diagnosed, it felt like I had to stand trial and wait for the death sentence to be read aloud. As I am not one to linger in wait, I pursued the appointment with haste. I wanted to prolong whatever free time I would have with my boys, if the results were not going to be in my favor. So, I continued to call the list of surgical centers until I reached Methodist Hospital. I was advised that I would be eligible for a grant because I was uninsured. At least I could be happy about that. I called and scheduled the appointment for the following Monday. In the meantime, I decided to go into full containment of my emotions. I worked more diligently on unfinished projects and I refused to cry, rejecting all moments of sadness. Yet, internally, desperation began to build, as just three weeks before my exam, one of my contracts had been terminated, effectively reducing my income by half. I felt compelled to prepare for the unknown financial burdens that are associated with long-term illness. I needed a plan for the rent, bills and food in the event that I would be unable to work. I needed a game plan, so I began to create one. Working helped to keep much of my anxiety at bay. But no matter how much I tried to manage and compartmentalize my emotions, there were still two concerns that weakened my resolve: Malik and Maddox - my two young men. They are and have always been the motivation and driving force behind endless struggle and legitimate hustle. The truth is that I am not afraid to die, except for my two reasons to live. I have had a pretty full life; one that people twice my age, have not been afforded the opportunity to live. So, I did not feel unsatisfied about my own life, rather, I felt that my death would rob my sons of much needed parental love and guidance. Neither of them have what I would consider a meaningful relationship with their fathers. I have no hope or expectation of any improvement in that regard, even upon my death. So my one and continuous prayer this past week has been, “Dear God, please don’t make my children orphans.” The thought of this was the one thing that could make me cry. It also made me want to fight. So a hard fight was my decision which replaced thoughts of the death sentence and I moved from the trial to the battlefield. I felt hard pressed on all sides, assaulted and under heavy fire. College tuition for Malik due. Daycare for Maddox due. Electricity bill due. My computer crashed the day before my presentation was due. Layers of frustration and anxiety began to build amid the conference calls, calls from friends and family – some to uplift and some who need to be lifted. And I am very thankful for those who encouraged me. I thank God for Antioch Christian Church where Dr. Tonya McGill preached a sermon which emphasized the battleground in the mind, on Sunday. She taught us to “think about what we think about.” To be critical of one’s own thoughts is the beginning of the victory. The end will likely be the physical evidence that you are in control of your thoughts and not the other way around. Naturally, Monday would be my day to test this out. I woke up the next morning, heavy with anticipation. At this point, I just wanted to know something; good or bad. Since I had already decided that death was off the table, breast amputation became a more real possibility. Still, in my determination to avoid grief and sadness, I decided that new breasts would be preferable anyway. If need be, I would set up a blog site called Igetanewpair; the thought of which allowed me to laugh hysterically at myself. Humor has great medicinal qualities for life’s infectious tragedies. So, I tentatively made my way to Methodist Hospital, checked in at the front desk and was promptly asked for my proof of insurance. (insert sound of scratched record here). I explained that I had been referred by Planned Parenthood and that the person who scheduled my appointment assured me that I would be covered by a grant for uninsured patients. The woman behind the desk asked me for proof of residency and I thought to myself “who randomly carries around leases and utility bills?”. But I told her that I did not have and that I had asked the scheduler if I needed to bring anything with me, but she said “no”. The tension in the room began to thicken. I could feel that multi-layered structure of fear and anxiety shifting around in the pit of my belly to form a multi-dimensional knot of anger and resentment. I stood there perplexed as the woman behind the desk dressed in hot pink scrubs began to lecture me about my responsibility to inform them in advance that I did not have insurance. Although, I’m quite sure I had already done so. Nevertheless, without thinking, I asked her “how much is it?” Well, you would have thought that I literally asked her for her arm and leg as she stared at me for a moment incredulously. She began to fumble around on her desk, and then called Planned Parenthood to ask if I were covered under their grant. As fate would have it, their grant was for women 40 years old and over; I am 39. The woman behind the desk became increasingly agitated as I remained standing, staring and waiting for her to tell me the cost of my examination. She then made an “executive decision” and decided to cover my costs with the Hospital’s Susan G. Komen grant, which she informed me, would be revoked if I did not fax or email my proof of residency to her. She then proceeded to tell me that the examination normally costs $600 for the mammogram after the uninsured discount and another $300 for the sonogram ordered by my doctor. I continued to just stare at this woman until she finally asked me to have a seat in the waiting room. As I sat and pondered the epic stare down, it occurred to me that this woman was not accustomed to civility. I, on the other hand, expect it. She anticipated conflict, so she chose to preempt her losses by lecturing me in advance of the grant approval, which had been available all along. Perhaps that was her moment to feel powerful? After a brief wait, the technician called me back to prepare for the examination. She was very kind throughout the entire exam, even when my breasts were being crushed between two small elevator doors. Contrary to popular belief, the mammogram did not hurt. It was very uncomfortable and somewhat intimidating, but not excruciating. I was given a brief scare after the technician returned from reviewing the initial photos with the doctor. I was informed that additional photos of the left side had been requested. (Back to the boobie guillotine I go!) It was over quickly and I soon met with the doctor who was also very nice. As she conducted the sonogram, she explained that after reviewing the x-rays, she was unable to find any lumps, not even the cysts originally found! She did, however, notice some calcium deposits in the left breast tissue and recommended a routine stereo biopsy. She reassured me that there was nothing to worry about that my breast pain was likely caused by too much caffeine and/or a shift in hormones. So, my story ends on a pretty good note – much better than millions of other women who are not as fortunate. Yet, I cannot help but to think about the woman behind the desk and the possibility that she could be so callous to a woman who ultimately in on her own trial for a death sentence the day she walks into that hospital. What if that woman would have walked away, missing the opportunity for early detection? What if she had not chosen to suppress her multi-layered fear and anxiety, rather, chose to reach out and touch the woman behind the desk instead? What if she had a gun? After my appointment was over, I realized that I needed to write this story for the “What if’s”. For those women who do not have the emotional and intellectual skill set needed to remain civil under a tremendous amount of pressure. I wrote this to encourage more donations to organizations that prioritize the health of women. I wrote this for the people who would dare to deprive me of the opportunity to purchase affordable health insurance. Perhaps they could use a lesson in civility too. But most importantly, I wrote this for the children who should never, ever have to become orphans.
Posted on: Tue, 15 Oct 2013 08:43:57 +0000
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