mollywheezy | LJ Idol Week 11

Prompt: Surgery often looks like murder if you judge it halfway through.

Author’s Note: I probably need to warn for medically graphic descriptions. As usual, most names have been changed with one exception. You will recognize which name is real when you read it. ;)

On Memorial Day of 2008, I was taking advantage of a "day off" by busily cleaning the house, while my husband Arthur ran errands. I had fallen and broken a rib eight months previously, and this was the first day I was able to clean without pain. I am not Donna Reed, so I was in bad shape since vacuuming was a joy. By afternoon, I was tired, ready to quit and looked down at myself seeing I was covered in blood—my left arm, leg, chest, stomach. I went to clean up, trying to figure out what I had done to myself, and I realized I was bleeding from my breast—sort of like a woman who is nursing might leak milk, but with blood.

My first response was absolute panic. I took a deep breath, remembering my training in CPR, First Aid, Critical Incident Stress Management . . . If this wasn’t my body, what would I do? Well, first of all, I’d tell the person not to panic. And I would pray. So I prayed, and God told me to call one of my friends who is a nurse. I called her, and her response was, “You're what? Oh my gosh!” I told her that was not helpful, and we both laughed. She said she didn’t think I needed to go to the ER, but go to the doctor the next morning. I was very thankful not to need to go to the ER on a holiday.

Since I had called my friend, I was able to convince Arthur I didn't need the ER because Nurse Carol said so. Not going to the ER did not help the problem that my breast was still bleeding, though. My sweet husband went to the grocery store and bought nursing pads for me. Praise God for self-checkout! And thankfully, we have red sheets.

The next morning, I called my doctor as soon as they opened, told the woman who answered what was happening, and she said, "Can you be here in twenty minutes?" That had never happened in my life. I had the forethought to shower and dress before I called, so I left immediately.

My doctor almost cried when she saw me. I knew just by looking at her face she thought I had breast cancer, but I was touched she cared so much. After having bled all afternoon and all evening, of course, my breast would not bleed for my doctor. She squeezed all sorts of stuff out of there. I even asked if I had a buffet going on in my breast, which made the doctor and nurse both laugh. No matter how hard she squeezed, she couldn't get a blood sample to test for cancer cells. She called the Breast Center and made an appointment for me to have a diagnostic mammogram, different from the regular yearly screening one, and also my first, and an ultrasound of my breast at the earliest appointment the next morning.

I bled again that night, of course. And now in addition to the bleeding, I was in pain. I hadn't had pain initially, which is why I hadn't noticed when I started bleeding. When I arrived at the Breast Center and signed in for my appointment, the receptionist couldn't find me on the list. When I told her the appointment had been made yesterday and was for a diagnostic rather than a screening mammogram, she hustled me over to a different window, found the appointment, and took me back immediately.
The nurse who was doing my diagnostic mammogram, glanced at me and asked, "How old are you, Sweetie?" Friends have told me when I am nervous, I look very young. "Thirty-four," I answered.
The nurse nodded. "So this is your first mammogram, then?" I nodded. She looked at the file she was holding and said, "It's your first time, and you're having a diagnostic mammogram?" I nodded again. "You poor thing! Why don't you tell me what's been going on, honey?" I gave the nurse the short version of events, and she responded with kindness and compassion. She explained everything she was doing, and kept me talking by asking about work, my family, my pet cockatiel. The distraction didn't make anything better, but I appreciated her effort. When she finished the mammogram, I realized I had bled onto the machine and asked if that sample could be tested. Of course, it couldn't. The nurse apologized and told me the bleach they used to clean the machine would contaminate any sample.

I appreciated Nice Nurse, as I think of her since I can't remember her name, even more after I went for the ultrasound. The technician greeted me politely, but then didn't say a word, and scowled throughout the test. She looked at the screen and scowled, moved the wand around on my breast, scowled some more, looked at the screen and frowned again. I wanted to ask her what she saw on the screen to make her frown so much. I craned my neck trying to see the screen myself, but could only see a small portion of it. Not that I could understand what I saw anyway. The technician never quit frowning, and I wanted to yell, "Quit scowling at my boob!" but I didn't.

Before I left, Nice Nurse made an appointment for me to see a breast surgeon in two days. She said the wait for an appointment was usually at least a week, so I took this as good news. I was hopeful I would know what was going on soon and have a plan for how to move forward.

I brought Arthur with me to see the breast surgeon. I had come by myself for the previous appointments, but decided I wanted back-up if I was going to hear I had breast cancer. The doctor swept into the room looking at a file. He did not look up as he said, "Good morning" and muttered as he read the file. He exclaimed, "You're thirty-four! At your age, you don't have breast cancer, but we'll take a look anyway."

I should have walked out the door right then. The organist of my parents' church, a close family friend, lost her daughter to breast cancer at age thirty-two for the very reason she couldn't get a doctor to believe she had breast cancer until it was too late. But I was already there, I have an above-average level of trust for the medical profession, and I had made Arthur miss work to come with me, so I didn't walk out. I figured even if he didn't have good bedside manner, he was still a specialist. I asked him about my pain, and he said, "You don't have pain with breast cancer." He examined me extremely briefly—I'm not sure the doctor ever actually looked at my face—and ordered another test, a ductogram.

We weren't able to get the ductogram scheduled any earlier than two weeks away. I was still bleeding and afraid to leave the house because it could potentially be very embarrassing. I was in so much pain it hurt to breathe and wearing a bra made it worse. The Sunday after I saw the breast surgeon, I left church in tears because I was in so much pain. And when I say I left church, at the time I was one of the associate pastors, so it was equivalent to taking a sick day from work. I made Arthur tell the senior pastor I wasn't feeling well and meet me in the car.

I was certain a gigantic tumor was pushing against my rib and had rebroken it, because that's what it felt like. I had wanted to wait until we knew something to tell people, but we decided we couldn't wait. In one week, I had missed staff meeting for my first doctor's appointment, had to get a friend to cover the Bible study I taught at a Skilled Nursing Facility so I could go for my mammogram and ultrasound, and rescheduled a meeting with a church member to see the breast surgeon.

I decided to start telling people by telling my prayer group—the F.R.O.G.s, which stands for Fully Rely on God. My prayer group included my closest friends, Arthur, and our adoptive parents from our church, so it was helpful to have their prayers as I told others. There is no good way to break that kind of news. I told my prayer group everything—all the gory details, and every person hugged me and said they'd be praying for me and asked me what they could do to help. I told them to be praying for me the next morning during staff meeting when I told the rest of the church staff.

We always started every staff meeting talking about joys and concerns and praying together. So I said, “I have a prayer request.” And then I sat there and twiddled with my pen, while everyone waited for me to figure out how to get my mouth to work. I finally managed to spit out, “I’m having tests for possible breast cancer.” Of course, the first question I was asked was, “Did you find a lump?” Umm. No. Most people didn't really want to know what I did find, even when they asked the question. I felt like I should be walking around with a big button proclaiming WARNING: TMI. The senior pastor asked me who else knew. I said I told the F.R.O.G.s, and our youth ministry intern looked at me as if I had ten heads. I could tell she was thinking, “Pastor Molly talks to amphibians?" I burst out laughing and explained F.R.O.G.s was my prayer group. We all had a good laugh, and our business manager piped up, “Of course you’d tell the frogs, but I would avoid telling any turtles—turtles are such blabbermouths.” I was really thankful since I needed a good laugh. I have always thought humor is a means of grace.

I asked for the prayer list to say "having tests for possible breast cancer". Our church office manager declared, "It's not appropriate to use the word 'breast' on the prayer list." Nobody said anything, so I said, "We've used the word 'breast' on the prayer list before," and I gave a few examples of other church members who had been fighting breast cancer. She said, "But they actually had cancer. They weren't only having tests." The situation worsened when the senior pastor agreed with her. He wanted the prayer list to say "testing". I begged them to listen to me, and said I was going to get a hundred phone calls asking me what I was being tested for. Nobody else said anything. My senior pastor insisted I was wrong.

I have seen cartoons where a person has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, whispering in her ears. I call my angel and devil Good Molly and Bad Molly. When the church office manager said we couldn't use the word "breast" on the prayer list, Good Molly won, and I kept quiet. Bad Molly wanted to say, "So sorry if my horrifying medical condition offends your delicate sensibilities, now write the prayer list the way I want it! It's my prayer request."

It turned out I didn't receive one hundred phone calls. I received eighty-seven phone calls in the twenty-four hours after the prayer list was e-mailed to the congregation. I had to repeat my story eighty-seven times and listen to eighty-seven reactions of people who didn't really want to know what was going on even though they had asked. I did not have the energy to deal with it.

I began to isolate myself because I quit telling people unless I had to. I had received positive responses, especially from my prayer group, but I didn't know if someone would have a positive or negative response until I took a risk and told them. I had my prayer group supporting me, but I mostly ignored everyone else. I was afraid because I couldn't stand seeing looks of revulsion or hearing voices of uncertainty or disgust when asked what was going on, and I said I was bleeding from my breast. I wanted to curl up in a ball and hide.

Telling people did not get easier. I knew I needed to tell the entire church as soon as possible, because I didn’t want someone to see me at the doctor’s office and find out that way. I live in a small city that's big enough to have wonderful cultural events and plenty of things to do, but is small enough to have a small-town feel to it. I love it here, but there are only two hospitals and two places to have mammograms. I rarely go anywhere without seeing at least one person I know.

I looked at the calendar to pick the Sunday I would tell the church. I knew the sooner, the better, because when I told folks I would gain their prayers and support. At least I hoped I would. I knew people couldn’t support me if they didn’t know what was going on, and I had to at least give people the chance. But I couldn’t mention it on Father’s Day—lots of church members had their dads visiting, and I didn’t want to mess up Father’s day. And the following Sunday was our new associate pastor’s first Sunday. We were having a reception for him, and I didn’t want his reception taken over by everyone asking me what was wrong. I am a very skillful procrastinator. I planned to make the announcement on the following Sunday in late June, the Sunday after the Friday when my ductogram was scheduled.

When I arrived for the appointment for my ductogram, the nurse who took me into the room told me they would insert a tube into the milk duct in my breast that seemed to be bleeding the most, inject a dye, and then do a mammogram to get a good picture of what was going on. She said if I did have cancer, we had caught it very early, and my chances of beating it were extremely good, and if it was an intraductal papilloma, we'd know exactly where it was and be able to do a procedure to remove it. I was still stuck on the thought, "You're sticking what into my breast?" The nurse showed me a huge tube with a metal piece a couple of inches long on one end. She reassured me the metal bit was not a needle, just a tube. I didn't really care what it actually was. It would be stuck into my breast, which made it a horrifying instrument of torture.

At first, it wasn't as bad as I thought. It hurt, but not horribly so. The test was difficult, though, because I had to keep being repositioned. Breaking a rib significantly affected my upper body mobility, and I couldn't be on my left side or get my arms above my head for more than a few seconds. So the doctor said, "Don't worry, the nurse will hold your arms up for you." Don't worry, right. You’re stabbing me in the boob. That defines a reason to worry. And then the Holy Spirit brought to mind the story of Moses from Exodus 17. When Moses held his arms up, the Israelites won the battle, but when he put his arms down to rest, they would lose. You know you’re a pastor when . . . To be honest, I had to look up where in Exodus that story was, and I couldn’t remember who the two people were who helped Moses, (Aaron and Hur, for whoever is wondering), but it did give me a chuckle in the midst of the worst pain I have ever experienced, and I felt God's presence with me.

The test wasn't so bad when it had started, but it went on and on and on. According to the doctor, I have very twisty milk ducts, and it was difficult to insert the tube to inject the dye. It was significantly more difficult for me than for the doctor. After she thought the dye was in, she did a mammogram, and then had me reposition and did another mammogram, and then made me move and did another mammogram . . . I lost count around forty. Unfortunately, the films did not show anything, so we started the whole process over again for a total of almost two hours of torture. And the test ultimately was not successful due to my "malformed milk ducts". I wanted to scream at the doctor that nothing was wrong with my milk ducts, it was the stupid test, and the gigantic tube with the long "it's not a needle" metal piece. I actually suggested they try a smaller tube, and the nurse told me they didn't have one. When I said they could borrow one from Neonatal Intensive Care, she laughed as if I were joking. My sister-in-law is an attending physician in NICU, although not in my state unfortunately, so I know smaller tubes exist in the world.

I didn't say anything, though. I was in so much pain, I ran out of the office. A nurse ran after me because I had forgotten my purse. I thanked her, made it to the door, and burst into sobs. I ran to my car and knew I should have had someone bring me. I knew Arthur would have come with me if I had asked. I didn't want to make him use vacation time. I was preparing for the possibility of having a mastectomy, and if I did, Arthur was going to need to save his vacation time for later. I know several friends would have come with me if I had asked, but I didn't want to make them take time out to drive me to a test, either.

I'm not sure how I saw to drive home since I was still sobbing, but I made it home safely. I was supposed to call Arthur right after the test, but I was crying too hard. I knew he was worried enough as it was. I was faced with dying in my thirties, and he was faced with the possibility of being a widower in his thirties. I was always the one taking care of everybody else. I had to learn to let others take care of me.

When I came home, I was still crying and in pain, so I sent Arthur an email saying I was going to take a nap. I did not have a smart phone or the ability to text at that time. I tried to sound casual but failed miserably, since he called immediately knowing I was not OK. I told him the entire story through my tears, and could hear him cringing on my behalf. He did manage to joke that a ductogram gave new meaning to the term "boob tube". After talking to Arthur and taking a nap, I did feel a little better. We had made plans for a wine-tasting with some friends, and I wanted to back out, but he convinced me to get out of the house and have some fun. It worked. I was able to forget about what was going on, and enjoy time with our friends. Arthur bought me a forty dollar bottle of exquisitely good wine with the explanation, "After the day you've had, you deserve it."

The next day, Arthur and I had the task of figuring out what I would tell the congregation. We prayed over what I should say, and I wrote it down, planning to hand the piece of paper to someone else to make the announcement for me. I had made announcements of bad news for a number of people, and I wanted someone else to make my announcement for me. When I tried to get the senior pastor to make the announcement, he said, "Oh no, it will be so much better coming from you." And he wouldn’t take no for an answer! And I didn't see anyone else who was available for me to ask. So I looked only at Arthur, read my blip, heard gasps from everyone who had not seen the emailed prayer list, and got through it. After the service, the senior pastor said, “See that was so much better you did it.” I had one of those instant flashes of insight from the Holy Spirit, and said, “You just can’t say the word 'breast' in worship.” He said I was right, and we both laughed about it. It was one of those grace-filled, healing moments.

I did have a number of people who responded badly to my prayer request, but I also had people who responded in better ways than I could ever have imagined. One of my very dear friends in her eighties came up to me after church and asked for details of what was wrong, and when I told her she put her cane and her purse on a chair, threw her arms around me and said, "Oh, Sweetie! You must have been terrified!" She then began sending cards or calling every few weeks to encourage me and find out how I was doing, and she really wanted to know.

Another older friend told me she volunteers at the hospital letting women in need of a mastectomy see what her breasts look like after a double mastectomy and reconstruction. She offered to go into a closet with me at church and show me her breasts. I said I'd take her up on it if I needed surgery.

Overall, telling the church went well, although the senior pastor and office manager should have let me use the word breast on the prayer list, which would have saved me a lot of trouble. I did use the word "breast" in my announcement, but refrained from saying exactly what was going on. I tend to be very open, and will talk about anything with anyone, but I am sensitive to the fact that other people don't always want to hear it. Even without my saying exactly what had happened, two women from my church sought me out, both of them having had my exact same problem. One had a mastectomy and was a fifteen year breast cancer survivor. The other had an intraductal papilloma, a small benign growth in a milk duct, had surgery to remove it, and recovered completely. Both of them truly understood what I was going through because they had been there. They had the same tests, the same worries, the same fears, and were a huge support to me as I went through my tests.

Another benefit of telling the entire church was a plethora of nurses to offer advice. One gave me a list of surgeons from whom to get a second opinion. We had already made the appointment, but I was gratified to find the doctor on her good list, and not on the "don't use these people" list another nurse gave me. A third nurse gave me “Dr. Susan Love's Breast Book” which told me more than I ever wanted to know about breasts, but I was glad to be prepared with as much information and questions to ask the new surgeon as my brain and my notebook could hold.

I had actually made the appointment the Monday after my appointment with the first surgeon which was on a Friday. I called my doctor's office asking for a new referral, told them exactly why I was asking, and they provided one without question. I couldn't get an appointment with the new doctor for several weeks, though. I debated canceling the ductogram, but the nurses I talked to who already knew my situation, and the ones who found out later, all confirmed that generally doctors order the same tests, and if I wanted to find out what was happening sooner it would not be good to cancel. I was also having pain, and am allergic to the majority of prescription painkillers that would usually be prescribed. My G.P. had said I could take as many as twelve ibuprofen per day as a prescription dose. He discussed the possibility of stronger painkillers with me, but asked if I wanted to be able to drive. Since my main job at the church was visiting the homebound members and the hospitalized, if I couldn't drive, I couldn't work, so I settled for ibuprofen. I never thought ibuprofen would make my brain not function, though. Trying to remember anything became a trial, and I had to choose from day to day; do I want my brain to work, or do I want to have less pain—I couldn't take enough ibuprofen to be pain-free. I usually alternated days and tried to achieve a balance. I was not terribly successful, however, because if I was in bad pain, my brain didn't really work anyway.

I found I could mediate my lack of brain power with extra preparation. When I preached or taught a class, I usually did not use notes, but I began to have extremely substantial outlines in case of brain lapse. I preached at an evening service at my church once per month, and my Sunday to preach that June was the evening of the morning I had told my church. I had my outline, and the sermon was fine. Usually lay people would lead the rest of the service, but I was asked to lead the prayer time. Of course, I'll pray! I stood up and asked for joys and concerns, and a few were named, which I wrote down. Then I remembered one of our elderly members who needed prayer and said, "We need to pray for Anna because of her . . ." And my mind went completely blank. I could not think of the word "heart". I stood there silently for a moment, and then repeated, "We need to pray for Anna because of her . . ." and I thump-thumped my hand against my chest several times, pantomiming a heartbeat. One of the church members said, "Heart." I said, "Right! Her heart! Because she's wearing the thing . . ." I pantomimed a monitor . . . "that spits out the deal . . ." I pantomimed an EKG printout . . . "and she sees the doctor Thursday." I would like to say I quit babbling and prayed at that point. It would have been even better if I had called on someone else to pray, but another member asked a question about someone in the hospital, and I answered in the same fashion. I am certain the congregation did not expect to play charades during worship, but they were all very patient with me. I knew they really loved me, because even I was losing patience with myself.

I was tasked with taking our new associate pastor around to meet the homebound members since I knew them best. This was not really a task, since we became good friends and had fun visiting people together. I enjoyed getting to know him and introducing him to people I loved. I needed to stop and pick up my mammogram films before going to see the new surgeon. One day when we were out visiting, we were going to drive right by the hospital where the films were, but for some reason I could not manage to stop and get them with somebody else in my car. I easily could have said, "I need to pick up X-rays" and stopped and picked them up. I would not have needed to talk about my breasts, but I couldn't do it. I drove thirty miles out of the way to avoid taking him with me. I knew I was being ridiculous, Arthur told me I was being ridiculous, but even knowing I was being ridiculous, I couldn't bring myself to pick up the films.

I knew immediately the second doctor was going to be a very different experience from the first one. He walked into the room, shook my hand, shook Arthur's hand, introduced himself, and sat down to talk to us. I had a notebook of questions with me, “Dr. Susan Love's Breast Book”, and a chart of when I had been bleeding. He said he was impressed at my preparation, asked for my notebook, and answered every one of my questions. He looked at my mammogram films, including all of the ones from my ductogram. He seemed very disgruntled about the ductogram, and I asked him what was wrong. He said he would not have put me through a ductogram as a first step but would have waited to see if it became necessary. Our plan was for me to come three times each week for him to try to make me bleed so we could get a sample. He said he could feel around to find an intraductal papilloma—it might take more time and be painful, but he didn't think it was as painful as a ductogram, and the ductogram hadn't shown anything anyway. He also told me ibuprofen has the same properties as aspirin in thinning blood and would make me bleed more if I took it. He recommended acetaminophen instead, since I still wanted to be able to drive. He listened to me and was able to solve the mystery of my pain—I had developed costochondritis, essentially arthritis in my ribcage and a side-effect of my broken rib and having so much poking and prodding to test for breast cancer.

Shortly after my first visit with the second surgeon, who I decided to keep, I heard from the first surgeon about the results of my ductogram. He wanted to schedule surgery to remove all of the milk ducts from my breast. I thanked the nurse who called me and told her I had found a different surgeon and would be using him instead. She sounded extremely shocked, but didn't say much more than an exclamation of surprise. When I told Arthur what the first surgeon wanted to do, he said, "Great! You have a headache! Let's just take out your brain, problem solved!" He can always make me laugh.

For about a month, I went to see the second surgeon, three times each week. When I told him about the "ductogram results" he had comments similar to Arthur's. Then, for the following month, I saw him twice a week. I was still bleeding most of that time, and having what Arthur and I termed "Clothing Drama". I was constantly worried I would bleed through my clothes, and I was in far too much pain to wear a standard bra. Peter searched online, and I searched various stores, looking at bras for people who had had surgery, sports bras, camisoles, etc. Peter found and ordered me some bras online designed for people who had costochondritis. We possessed enough foundation garments we could have opened our own lingerie store. I even tried using band-aids to attach a nursing pad directly to my breast. Unfortunately, I discovered I share my dad's allergy to adhesives and developed a rash. I usually ended up wearing two shirts, but in Alabama in the summer, wearing two shirts made me stand out. I wore a t-shirt under a short-sleeved jacket most days and felt uncomfortable when people asked why I was so dressed up.

Going through this mess, I realized I was not afraid to die, but I was terrified of everything before death, such as more tests, surgery, radiation, chemotherapy. We decided if I had breast cancer I'd have a mastectomy. We had a close friend with prostate cancer, who chose radiation rather than surgery, and the cancer spread to his spine, and he died. Arthur and I had all of the difficult conversations about what if I died. We had plans for my funeral, my family knew my wishes, and I told Arthur if I died, he could feel free to get remarried because I wanted him to be happy. I once overheard my mom jokingly tell my dad if she died and he remarried, she would come back to haunt him. I told Arthur to do whatever he wanted and made suggestions for possible candidates if he chose to remarry. Not that I was planning on dying, I was planning on living, but I wanted both of us to be prepared, just in case.

I usually dealt well with what was happening—all the doctors' visits, the clothing drama, the pain, the fear. Not that I never had a pity party. One day, I was talking to Arthur on the phone and fussing about everything on earth. He asked if he was invited to my pity party, which made me laugh. I told him yes, if he brought chocolate. And my wonderful husband came home with chocolate.

My scrapbooking group was a huge blessing. I had met with this group of women once each month for years to scrapbook our memories and share our lives. It was the only place where I could truly talk openly, and not worry about anyone recoiling in horror. We all met one weekend at my friend's house on Smith Lake to talk, watch movies, listen to music, eat, and scrapbook. On that weekend, after everyone had heard the story of what was happening with me, one of my dear friends from that group put her arm around me and said, "Gather round, y'all. We're going to pray for poor Molly and her bleeding booby!" She's rather the opposite of my church's office manager, and I love her for it. She did pray for me, and we had such a wonderful weekend. I also received a ton of advice. Most of the women there held up their tops and said, "Would this type of bra work for you, Molly?" Usually the answer was no, but I appreciated the thought. I had to leave the retreat weekend early to get back in time for church, and when I woke up, I saw I had bled during the night on my friend's sheets, which were beige. It was six in the morning, and everyone else was still asleep. Someone was even sleeping in the room where the washing machine was located, so I was not able to start the laundry. I stripped the bed, left a note of apology, but had to leave the sheets. Nobody was awake when I left. My friend called me later to ask if I was all right. She didn't care about the sheets in the slightest.

My dad had his first stroke on August 4, 2008, so I flew to Missouri to help my parents. Thankfully his stroke was minor. I had told my parents the bare facts of what was going on, but since my mom worries enough for twenty people, I greatly downplayed the severity of my issues. Surprisingly, I did not bleed while at their house, for which I was very thankful, since my mom does not deal well with blood, and had her fill with my dad. My dad was only in the hospital for four days.

Of course, we can’t have only one drama at a time. As if my dad and I having simultaneous health dramas was not enough, the morning after he got home from the hospital, the knob on the shower I was using fell apart in my hands. My dad wanted to run to the basement for a screwdriver to fix it, but I reminded him of his blood thinners and told him I would do it. Not that I had any idea how to fix a faucet, but honestly, neither did my dad. Even without YouTube how-to videos (my parents did not have internet) I managed to fix it! Arthur said it did not qualify as “fixed” since I somehow reversed the hot and cold sides. I told him water would not come out of the faucet, and now water would come out of the faucet, so I was calling it a win.

The next day, my parents’ mailbox had been knocked off its post along with most of the other mailboxes on the street. Apparently, it is fun for teenagers to drive down the road with a baseball bat outside the window knocking down mailboxes. I never understood why vandalism was fun even when I was a teenager, but it certainly was not fun for me with my chronic pain, caring for my dad post stroke, and oh yeah, my bleeding breast. Of course my dad wanted to go fix it. I convinced him to let me try first, reminding him I had fixed the faucet. I used my mom’s drill (yes, she had her own tools–she was always the most handy of the three of us.) I was outside in the sun in 105 degree heat, wearing two shirts due to continuing clothing drama, and could not get a good grip on the mailbox. I needed to be able to hold it against my chest with one arm and use the drill in the other, but I was in too much pain to hold the mailbox in the necessary position. I was determined not to give up because power tools and blood thinners would not be a good mix for my not-very-handy dad.

I kept trying until sweat was streaming everywhere on me and I could barely see straight from pain. I hadn’t succeeded and wasn’t sure what I was going to do when someone said, “May I help you, ma’am?” I said, “Yes please!” before turning around to see who had spoken. We made introductions. Buddy said he lived down the street in the house with the pillars. I thanked him for offering to help and handed him my mom’s drill. He looked at it skeptically. My mom’s drill was sized for a woman’s hand and was powder blue. Buddy said he would be more comfortable using his own drill and would be back in a few minutes. He returned quickly and fixed the mailbox in about five minutes. I had been out there for over an hour. I thanked him again and he left. I went inside and said to my parents, “Praise God for your neighbor Buddy! He fixed the mailbox.” My mom said, “We don’t have a neighbor named Buddy.” I thought for a second he might have been an angel. I answered, “He said he lives in the brick house with white columns.” My mom said, “I thought his name was Norman!” My dad added, “If my name were Norman, I’d go by Buddy, too.” We all laughed, thankful for the mailbox fixer, whatever he called himself.

I had a “break” from my own doctor visits while helping my dad for two weeks, but came home to further poking, prodding and testing. After a total of four months, the second surgeon determined I did not have breast cancer. A milk duct had ruptured which had been the cause of the bleeding. It is possible I damaged the milk duct in the fall that broke my rib, but there is no way to know for sure. I fell up the stairs at an assisted living facility and hit my check on the corner of the step. I was so thrilled to be cleared from further surgeon's visits I celebrated by buying tons of pink ribbon products in thanksgiving for not having breast cancer. I purchased everything I could find at the store—a hairbrush, a purse hanger, socks, slippers, and a number of reusable grocery bags. Arthur usually went to the store instead of me because bending and lifting were difficult and caused my costochondritis to flare up. He complained all of our reusable grocery bags were pink. I teased him, "Real men carry pink shopping bags." He rolled his eyes at me, and grabbed the bags without another word.

My costochondritis was a challenge for quite a while since I was in almost constant pain. I had physical therapy and water exercises and finally found an arthritis medicine I could take that has worked wonderfully for me. Arthur eventually found a type of bra called the Bralleluja (Handel is rolling over in his grave) which was helpful, so no more clothing drama or wearing two shirts in the summer! On a more serious note, I have been able to reach out to other women who had the same problem just as people reached out to me. The first time I shared my story on a women's retreat, one of the women there was having a ductogram the morning after the retreat weekend. She almost didn't attend, but decided she deserved a fun weekend away. We were both glad she came and have become good friends.

My relationship with the senior pastor of my church improved when I took a job as a hospice chaplain and he was no longer my boss. The church office manager never ceased to be a pain in the butt, and once I was no longer on the church staff, I unfriended her on Facebook. She remains to this day the only person I have unfriended. I still have costochondritis, but my flare-ups are far less frequent and less severe. I found a non-namebrand version of the Bralleluja which is much less expensive and actually works better! My only clothing drama now is caused by pandemic weight gain, but that’s a story for a different time.