All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,58

I’ll just say that I married the wrong man. But there’s no need to feel sorry for me. I’ll bet marriage is a wonderful thing if you choose the right person, and maybe I’ll find that out someday, but I’m all right with it if I don’t, I really am. I felt that way before my diagnosis and I feel that way now.)

I was planning to go back to work as a television feature producer and I still am, but I couldn’t get in to see my old boss for a few weeks, so I was just taking a little time off. I rather liked the idea of easing my way back in. I went to visit old friends, ate in some fabulous restaurants, joined a new gym, started looking for an apartment. Everything was really mellow and nice, and after two months in Hawaii it was mostly terrific to be back in the hustle and bustle.

One of the things I needed to do was go up to Greenwich to see my gynecologist. I hadn’t been in over a year, between travel and my ill-fated marriage and a variety of other reasons too, among them being I had grown tired of the lecture the doctor is always giving me. You see, my mother died of ovarian cancer when I was just eleven years old, and my aunt Judith was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was thirty, so my doctor has been pounding into my head that I need to start having mammograms much younger than most women, and even advised I should see a genetics counselor, because my family history puts me in a high-risk category. And I appreciate her concern, I genuinely do, but when you’re young and healthy you’re just not thinking that way.

Except this time I listened.

Part of the reason, ironically, was that I’d been feeling so good. I’d been treating my body so well in every other way: nutrition, exercise, training; consultation with medical doctors just felt like it fit. Plus, as I mentioned, I had a bunch of free time on my hands.

So I went.

My gynecologist made the appointment for me at Manhattan Breast Radiology Center last Tuesday. I couldn’t have been less agitated about any of it. In fact, I felt empowered; it was just one more piece of my overall commitment to health. The entire time my boob was being squeezed flat in the machine I was contemplating becoming a vegan, and beating myself up for disliking the taste of carrot juice.

The exam wasn’t as bad as I feared. The worst part was not being allowed to use lotion or deodorant; I was paranoid I would smell. But the machine itself was fine really; a little uncomfortable, but certainly I’ve been more uncomfortable before. It didn’t feel like it took so long, either, and when it was done I got cleaned up and dressed and sat and waited, surreptitiously sniffing about my armpit the entire time. Then the radiologist came back in the room with a funny look on her face. It’s not a look I’ve ever seen before, but I could read it immediately. She had news for me, and she didn’t want her expression to give it away.

“Samantha,” she began, “we did a mammogram, an ultrasound, and we did some additional views, and here is what we found. You have what are called abnormal calcifications in your left breast. Knowing that you have the family history we spoke of, I think we should do a biopsy.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I said. I’d heard every word, I just didn’t have any idea how to respond. All I could think of was to ask her to repeat herself.

“You have a cluster of abnormal calcifications in your left breast. I can explain to you in as much detail as you like what that means—”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I know what it means.” I didn’t. I had no idea what it meant, I just really didn’t want to have it explained to me. “Should I go get a second opinion?” I asked.

“Really, this isn’t an opinion,” she told me. “If you want someone else to look at your films before we do the biopsy, we can arrange that, but there isn’t any question about what we are seeing. I don’t want any of this to seem scary for you. It is likely that there is nothing at all to be concerned about, but considering your family history there is no doubt