Caring for others when you're in (semi) crisis mode.

I did promise you an essay every week, and I very much intend to keep that contract to you but this week was really fucking hard.

Image; @pernilleteisbaek

This may seem slightly off-topic, but if you have read any of my previous essays, you know that I write to uncover and make sense of things that don't quite make sense when I'm staring directly at them. This feels important to share, and it is hard to articulate. It is hard to describe how one ordinary day can instantly change a life. How it can alter how you feel, act, talk, and exist in this world. For me, that day was last Monday when I found a lump on my left breast positioned at around "9 o'clock", the doctor said a week later when manually examining me…

I was slumped on the lounge, typing on my laptop as I often do. I stopped to think and cupped my left breast with my right hand. Ironically I was jotting down ideas that I wanted to cover in Dear Dilate (ideas that still need to be explored) until I felt something that broke my concentration; "Is that a lump?" I muttered to myself. I then lifted my left arm and laid back to feel around some more. It was indeed a lump and not my imagination. It was the size of my son's bouncy ball I bought for him out of one of those machines. You know, the ones generally front and centre of an over-priced convenience store that you had to stop to grab "just one thing" from but leave with two plastic shopping bags (the guilt of the plastic shopping bags) and a toddler in hysterics because you can't carry them, but you also didn't get a trolley or bring the pram because you were only getting "one thing!" so you scrape together your shrapnel and pray it's enough to buy the damn bouncy ball that will mean they will walk to the car instead of laying on the floor screaming, "my legs are broken."

It was the size of that bouncy ball. 3cm, to be exact, as I'm later told by the specialist. How could I miss this? It's a plus-size lump on a B-cup breast, for Christ's sake. Though, it's obvious how I missed it. I don't check my breasts often. Actually, I don't think I've checked them at all. The last time I recall having a breast examination was when I found out I was pregnant with Fred four years ago. But today wasn't even supposed to be a proper check. It was by accident. During a moment of concentration, I unconsciously held my empty sock to think further. How long had it been there? Had it grown in size? And what was it?

My family history immediately came to mind. And not to sound dramatic, but both of my grandmothers had died from breast cancer, and I vividly remember the untreated lump my Nanna had on her breast. It was so large it looked like a third boob. She was a widow and suffered from her own traumas, which made her terrified of hospitals and trusting anyone outside of my mother, her only child, who was left to look after her when she became terminal. My grandmother on my father's side, I sadly never met. I'm told she was a gentle and kind woman who loved my dad wholeheartedly. She was misdiagnosed with tuberculosis, and only once it was too late, she was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. My dad was only 22 when he lost his mother. My son is only 3. He is too young to suffer such loss. I'm too young to leave this earth – I immediately called my GP.

I had to wait one week for an appointment. One entire week and over the next few days, I replaced my mindless scrolling with doom-googling. The logical part of my brain floated out of my body as I nose-dived right into Dr Google. I knew I had a sizeable lump that felt hard, not "squishy like a grape", as one article described a common cyst feels like. In my unprofessional opinion, it was not a cyst. As I saw it, there were two scenarios. 1. A fibroadenoma, by definition, is a non-cancerous tumour that most often occurs in young women and is my preferred option. Or 2. Breast cancer which is just too much for me to consider. I slammed my laptop shut and switched on White Lotus (nothing like focusing on someone else's chaos when you're in crisis mode).

"So, Jade, what's up? I haven't seen you in a while. How's things?" My doctor asked.

"Yeah I'm good. Really well. I just noticed I was overdue for a cervical screen." I responded.

"Oh right. Did you get the reminder?"

"Yes... a while ago." I confessed.

"And also I, ah found a lump on my left breast and it's probably nothing but given my family history I thought perhaps you should check that as well. And I'm always tired so should I get bloods done while I'm here?"

"Ok let's just check you all over and I'll send you to do bloods because you haven't had a check up in years and it's good to do then you know you're all up-to-date."

"Yes. Ok. Great."

I usually dread the scraping of my cervix, but this time, I felt too fixated on another part of my anatomy to dwell. It felt like something I could now just tick off my list. Task complete. The Dr. then examined my chest and confirmed a lump but assured me not to worry. It was best to get an ultrasound, and it will probably (hopefully) determine this is a benign mass. If they couldn't tell the lump's nature, then a biopsy would be required "just to be safe," the doctor said. She then called, promptly booked me in and scribbled down the words, 'Wednesday, 1:30pm, wear a mask.'

Over the next two days, I continued to obsess. I continued to Google, "what shape are cancerous lumps? Is it bad if a lump is hard not squishy like a grape? What are the statistics for women under 40 with breast cancer?" And according to the National Breast Cancer Foundation, it's estimated that 1000 Australian women (under the age of 40) a year will be diagnosed, which is too high, especially for my anxious brain. Luckily, I had a hectic work schedule that felt like a welcomed distraction.

Wednesday slowly rolled around. I had the ultrasound, and that 3cm bouncy ball is a large black, soulless matter on the screen, so I knew a biopsy would be required. The specialist said not to stress that most of the time, it's a fibroadenoma (perhaps that googling was handy for something!) but recommended a core biopsy to be sure, given my medical history. The biopsy was booked for next week… another week of self-pity and self-diagnosing, except not really. 

The following day, Freddie woke in a very emotional mood which is usually expected after his daycare days. As the morning progressed, he got increasingly set off by every and nothing at all. He winced and said his cheek hurt when I applied his sunscreen before we headed out for a walk. Later, I noticed a lump on the side of his neck. The left side. And he was avoiding turning his head. He had a stiff neck and was now in a lot of pain. I called the GP, but they were fully booked until tomorrow, and I burst into tears. Freddie also burst into tears. It all felt too much. I gave him some Paracetamol, and that seemed to help. He was back to playing again, albeit moving cautiously, like a watered-down version of himself. He wasn't bouncing around, nor was he rolling on the floor or jumping off the couch – he was stiff and robotic, and I was worried, extremely worried.

The next morning he wasn't much better. He cried out in pain and could not sit up alone. I could feel my jaw tighten, my shoulders tense, and my stress levels overflowing, but I remained calm but teary-eyed as I lay on his bed and read Oh No George! (a great book) while we waited for the Panadol to kick in. I helped him out of bed, made a smoothie, and we were en route to the GP. He examined him and could see the lump; I felt Fred recoil when he softly pressed his neck and saw his inflamed tonsils on the same side – tonsillitis was his diagnosis, and I felt relieved. All of that googling left me with some genuinely catastrophic conclusions. Some pain relief and antibiotics should "do the trick!" the Dr. assured me. All the while, my husband was at home, feeling achy all over, like he'd been hit by a bus. I prompted him to do a RAHT which, by now, I'm sure you can see the pattern of bad luck, or was it bad timing? Either way, his result was positive, and he was banished to our bedroom, and I took the spare room. 

I probably wouldn't have locked in a biopsy so quickly if the specialist hadn't advised me at my ultrasound. I would have, instead, waited another week or so until my son and husband were both well before I thought about myself again. I would have shoved my health further down the priority list, which is nothing new for me and probably for the mothers reading this. I still haven't prioritised exercise or self-care or made the time to book in for a well-overdue teeth clean or see someone about my very regular back pain. Hell, I was well overdue for a cervical screen, and the blood test revealed my iron levels are borderline anaemic and haven't been good since 2018 – before becoming pregnant. 

It is alarmingly apparent how easy it is to not take care of ourselves, and self-diagnose with Dr Google or blame it on gut issues or the inevitable lack of personal time and lack of sleep that comes with parenthood. This week I wanted to lay in bed and cry and feel sorry for myself and not feel guilty about not staying positive. I wanted to wallow but I can’t (and yes that’s probably a good thing). Sometimes I just want to be selfish and not selfless. I want to focus on myself but that’s just not reality. Well, it’s certainly not this week. But if I can end this with tiny bit of advice, it is to book time in for yourself - I’m not talking a regular routine because regular can for the most part seem impossible but for medical check-ups and tune ups, for things that may be on your mind or in your head, for something that makes you feel good and ensures you stay like a well-oiled machine because there is always something that pops up that feels more important, but what could be more essential than Mum?