Noodles for brains and another breast biopsy - the upshot of chemo round 3

19/11/2021 (3 months before William's diagnosis)

I’m lying half naked on a hospital gurney, my brain has turned into noodles and I’ve just been injected with titanium.

This is the reality of having a breast biopsy four days after chemo.

Despite a numb boob thanks to Lidocaine, an ultrasound and three titanium breast clips, I couldn’t be happier. I’ve finally seen proof that my lump is shrinking and the treatment is working.

But let’s rewind a bit.

There’s nothing like curling up in bed exhausted, after puking into a basin while wondering if all the chemo is worth it, only to find your tumour is shrivelling.

At first, I thought it was just a trick of my addled imagination. But in spite of the chemo fog (aka, noodle brain), I knew my lump had changed.

In fact, it felt more like a Mint Imperial than a Humbug - small and round with a pebble hard shell.

My surprise, and well, tentative relief compelled me to thrust my boob at William and demand he have a feel.

A couple of days later, I found myself in the middle of a radiography room at Ross Hall Hospital with a three-dimensional image of my breast projected onto a screen.

But I wasn’t actually there because of my lump.

Ultrasound-guided breast biopsy

If you remember several weeks back, I had an MRI scan that showed a second lesion in the outer quadrant of my right breast (next to my original tumour).

Although I couldn’t feel it and had no symptoms whatsoever, my oncologist, Dr A, had booked me in for an ultrasound-guided breast biopsy to check whether the lesion was malignant or benign.

Plagued by fear and anxiety, the procedure started with me lying topless on a hospital gurney, shivering while a radiologist smeared my breasts with conductive gel.

I swear, the effect looked like something out of an erotic movie. Only, the gel helped ultrasound waves to travel through my body, but it did feel bloody cold.

Like anything to do with medical science though, the process was, to put it politely, really flipping amazing.

It involved a futuristic-sounding device called a transducer, a probe like apparatus that used high-frequency sound waves to produce pictures of my inner breast.

(Photo credit: npr.org)

A core needle was then inserted to accurately pinpoint and sample my lesion. Except, the radiologist couldn’t find any trace of it - not even a smidge. So after taking a piece of breast tissue anyway, she inserted three titanium clips to mark the spot where it HAD been.

The result was nothing short of a miracle, but that wasn’t the only miraculous thing…

Because ultrasound produces images in real-time, it measured my original lump at 1cm (half its initial size). Meaning, just like the Wicked Witch of the West, it was melting, MELTING!

(Photo credit: MGM)

Hope springs

I wasn’t allowed to use my phone during the biopsy – hence the lack of photos on what on earth I looked like while smiling manically with bare breasts and a giant needle sticking out of me.

But if you think of Britney Spears when she was finally freed from her conservatorship, you’ll get part of the picture.

Sure, I felt pretty shell-shocked from the whole core needle experience and still had to wait for the biopsy results, but seeing my breast in 3D also gave me an enormous sense of hope.

It was the first time since my diagnosis that I truly felt like cancer wasn’t going to kill me - that part was all about my fear of going too soon and leaving my family.

Yet in the afterglow of the ultrasound, all those terrifying thoughts were replaced by a deep feeling of peace.

My lump, thanks to chemotherapy, was indeed melting and I literally felt like a giant mass had been lifted from my chest.

Biopsy results

Less than a week later, Dr A phoned with the biopsy results. I had been expecting his call, but it still took me ages to pick up.

Not that I didn’t want to speak to him as he really is a lovely guy, it was more about the fear of hearing more bad news.

As it turned out, Dr A sounded pretty chipper which kind of floored me because the only word I heard him say was “cancerous.”

I think there was talk about abnormal cells too. But he was speaking so fast, my noodle brain couldn’t keep up.

When I eventually managed to articulate a sentence and roll my tongue around the vowels, I asked Dr A to confirm whether my lesion was malignant?

“No,” he replied solemnly. But then hedged, “perhaps you misheard me… it’s pre-cancerous.”

Talk about an emotional rollercoaster.

To put it simply, a few cells around the site of my lesion may turn cancerous if left untreated. But as Dr A explained, I was already responding well to chemo and even if it didn’t wipe out all the abnormal cells, he felt confident that surgery and radiotherapy would.

So, as a word to the wise… If you suddenly find yourself waiting for biopsy results, have a list of questions ready for your oncologist. And never, I repeat, NEVER answer the call if you’re off your head on chemo drugs.

One last thing

For me, today is very symbolic as it marks one year exactly since my first chemotherapy treatment. And what a year it’s been. Scary, yes and emotional too. But it’s also been full of love and hope.

One of the things that neither William nor I could ever have expected was for multiple myeloma to join our cancer crew. All the signs and symptoms were there, but neither of us had a scooby.

Even though his bones were silently crumbling, William masked the pain. Preferring only to focus his attention on me.  

I’ll talk more about his diagnosis, treatment and unbelievable strength in my next few posts. But for now, you can show us your love and support by doing any of the following:

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All these little things will help speed our recovery and perhaps others with theirs too.

Thank you so much and we hope to see you soon.

P.S. If you were expecting this newsletter last week, I’m so sorry it’s late. A lot has been going on in Casa Cowan (a stem cell transplant for one). Normal service will now resume on the first Saturday each month.