Man-O-Gram Part II
[The story begins here.]
After I got the news, my first call was to my wife. She asked "When will you find out the results?" however, the only response I had was “Sorry honey, but once I heard the words ‘breast cancer’ and ‘lactating’, I was pretty much done taking in new information.”
My next call was to my friend whom, for the sake of this article, we’ll call Laura. She was over the age of 40 and every time she made her annual pilgrimage to get her mammogram on her birthday, she called me to tell me about it. Admittedly it was an odd way to bond, but it works for us. I knew she would be the one to give me real mammogram advice. She informed me that it helped to have big boobs (not that I had much say in this, although I follow a strict non-exercise regimen). Wearing deodorant was a mistake(apparently the X-ray machine picked up the flecks of some deodorant as cancers trying to get started). Finally, she told me, “Don't schedule the mammogram around your period.”
It was as this point that I hung up on Laura.
This is a good time to discuss the sensitive reactions of my friends. Don’t get me wrong: I love my friends. On the whole, these people would walk through fire for me, but we all dealt with trying times the same way: with (sadistic) humor. My friend, whom I’ll call Dan, called while I was sitting on my couch still brooding about my news. He wanted to tell me that he had been sent home from work because he had injured his back and was going to have to have an MRI done.
“I bet that I can trump your test,” I said.
This would be the same Dan who, when I was a teen and had a rod inserted along my spine to correct my scoliosis, visited during my recovery to see if magnets would stick to my back. He began laughing so hard I thought I was going to have to go over to his place to perform CPR.
In addition to being my pastor, he whom I will call Rich was one of my closest friends. I know that if anyone else had come to him, he would have been full of all sorts of pastoral wisdom. Since it was me, someone who shared his often twisted bent, I got “this explains why you like shopping so much and dress so nice.” [In his defense, read: how he has since spun this in light of me writing about it, he was merely trying to "alleviate the weightiness" of the situation by making a joke. He went on to say that his response contrasted with that of our friend I’ll call Rob who “delighted in your misfortune.”
Rob not only laughed so much that I had to let him go, but when I called back, he was still laughing. In fact, he in turn had called Rich, to continue laughing. And despite Rich’s protestations to the contrary, Rich’s wife informed me that he was so giddy at the opportunity to be there for me, he nearly broke his finger trying to call me back to make a comment about the possibility of me having ovaries].
With a whole weekend to kill, I turned to the one place I knew would answer all my questions, that would comfort me in the cool embrace of useful information: the Internet. For the record, the Internet was a wonderful tool, especially for finding information. However, it was not someplace that hypochondriacs should wander alone.
I didn’t even know men could get breast cancer until I saw it on an episode of Oz. The American Cancer Society estimated that each year, about 1,700 new cases of breast cancer in men would be diagnosed in the U.S. The symptoms included nipple discharge (usually bloody), nipple inversion, a lump, or, occasionally, local pain, itching, or pulling sensation.
If indeed I was lactating, my condition was called galactorrhea: the secretion of breast milk in men, or in women who were not breast-feeding an infant. It could be caused by a pituitary gland tumor, other types of brain tumors, head injuries, or encephalitis (an infection of the brain). Men could possibly experience loss of sexual interest and impotence. And then I came across the single most disturbing article on the topic: “Milkmen: Fathers Who Breast-feed.” It was about men who purposefully stimulated their nipples to produce milk. It had pictures.
Pictures.
[Note: some of the more disturbing pictures have since been removed]
Monday eventually arrived, and with it, the mammogram. I thought that I would feel odd, a guy waiting in the office that performed mammograms, until it occurred to me that I looked like a guy waiting on his wife.
The technician did her best to calm me, while handing me wipes - to remove any deodorant I might be wearing - and a gown to wear. Though I’d only wear the gown from the changing room for the four steps it took to get to the X-ray machine. She had me put one hand behind my back and the other on the machine, presumably to steady myself, though I was not certain that it wasn’t just to give my hands something to do in order to keep me from clawing at the machine.
There was a whole lot of tugging and pulling and clamping down of things. Most of my writing career is done as a horror writer, but let me tell you, no matter how dulcet the tone, the new scary phrase for me was "let me guide the tissue". That cued the pancaking--and there was a reason that the word “pancake” could be used as a verb--of flesh. And, Laura’s advice aside, I don't have a lot to work with. Two plates pressed together to flatten my breast as much as possible. It was one of those “you may feel an uncomfortable pressure” - not to be confused with pain - situations. All told, it took only a few moments to get the two views of my breast, one from above and one angled from the side.
Luckily, there was a doctor there to read the results for me. She made me nervous at first, because she asked to have a couple of re-shots, saying that she wanted to see "my nipple in profile". I always imagined that a woman saying that to me would be grounds for divorce, but then she came back with the news that my condition looked like an abscess of some sort. Probably caused by an insect bite or ingrown hair. Antibiotics were prescribed and it cleared it up within a couple of weeks.
All in all, things turned out well. Granted, now I can't remove my shirt when I play volleyball for fear of breaking some obscenity law by exposing my nipples. At the very least, the scare reminded me not to take my time, my family, or my friends for granted because I didn't know how long I would be with them.
And my sons appreciate how great my maternal instincts are.
Again, a special thanks to Morbid Curiosity’s editor, Loren Rhoads. Moving on to concentrate on her writing which is everyone’s gain (except those competing for the same markets she submits to).
***
I don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to stop by and say hi, do so on my message board. I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
After I got the news, my first call was to my wife. She asked "When will you find out the results?" however, the only response I had was “Sorry honey, but once I heard the words ‘breast cancer’ and ‘lactating’, I was pretty much done taking in new information.”
My next call was to my friend whom, for the sake of this article, we’ll call Laura. She was over the age of 40 and every time she made her annual pilgrimage to get her mammogram on her birthday, she called me to tell me about it. Admittedly it was an odd way to bond, but it works for us. I knew she would be the one to give me real mammogram advice. She informed me that it helped to have big boobs (not that I had much say in this, although I follow a strict non-exercise regimen). Wearing deodorant was a mistake(apparently the X-ray machine picked up the flecks of some deodorant as cancers trying to get started). Finally, she told me, “Don't schedule the mammogram around your period.”
It was as this point that I hung up on Laura.
This is a good time to discuss the sensitive reactions of my friends. Don’t get me wrong: I love my friends. On the whole, these people would walk through fire for me, but we all dealt with trying times the same way: with (sadistic) humor. My friend, whom I’ll call Dan, called while I was sitting on my couch still brooding about my news. He wanted to tell me that he had been sent home from work because he had injured his back and was going to have to have an MRI done.
“I bet that I can trump your test,” I said.
This would be the same Dan who, when I was a teen and had a rod inserted along my spine to correct my scoliosis, visited during my recovery to see if magnets would stick to my back. He began laughing so hard I thought I was going to have to go over to his place to perform CPR.
In addition to being my pastor, he whom I will call Rich was one of my closest friends. I know that if anyone else had come to him, he would have been full of all sorts of pastoral wisdom. Since it was me, someone who shared his often twisted bent, I got “this explains why you like shopping so much and dress so nice.” [In his defense, read: how he has since spun this in light of me writing about it, he was merely trying to "alleviate the weightiness" of the situation by making a joke. He went on to say that his response contrasted with that of our friend I’ll call Rob who “delighted in your misfortune.”
Rob not only laughed so much that I had to let him go, but when I called back, he was still laughing. In fact, he in turn had called Rich, to continue laughing. And despite Rich’s protestations to the contrary, Rich’s wife informed me that he was so giddy at the opportunity to be there for me, he nearly broke his finger trying to call me back to make a comment about the possibility of me having ovaries].
With a whole weekend to kill, I turned to the one place I knew would answer all my questions, that would comfort me in the cool embrace of useful information: the Internet. For the record, the Internet was a wonderful tool, especially for finding information. However, it was not someplace that hypochondriacs should wander alone.
I didn’t even know men could get breast cancer until I saw it on an episode of Oz. The American Cancer Society estimated that each year, about 1,700 new cases of breast cancer in men would be diagnosed in the U.S. The symptoms included nipple discharge (usually bloody), nipple inversion, a lump, or, occasionally, local pain, itching, or pulling sensation.
If indeed I was lactating, my condition was called galactorrhea: the secretion of breast milk in men, or in women who were not breast-feeding an infant. It could be caused by a pituitary gland tumor, other types of brain tumors, head injuries, or encephalitis (an infection of the brain). Men could possibly experience loss of sexual interest and impotence. And then I came across the single most disturbing article on the topic: “Milkmen: Fathers Who Breast-feed.” It was about men who purposefully stimulated their nipples to produce milk. It had pictures.
Pictures.
[Note: some of the more disturbing pictures have since been removed]
Monday eventually arrived, and with it, the mammogram. I thought that I would feel odd, a guy waiting in the office that performed mammograms, until it occurred to me that I looked like a guy waiting on his wife.
The technician did her best to calm me, while handing me wipes - to remove any deodorant I might be wearing - and a gown to wear. Though I’d only wear the gown from the changing room for the four steps it took to get to the X-ray machine. She had me put one hand behind my back and the other on the machine, presumably to steady myself, though I was not certain that it wasn’t just to give my hands something to do in order to keep me from clawing at the machine.
There was a whole lot of tugging and pulling and clamping down of things. Most of my writing career is done as a horror writer, but let me tell you, no matter how dulcet the tone, the new scary phrase for me was "let me guide the tissue". That cued the pancaking--and there was a reason that the word “pancake” could be used as a verb--of flesh. And, Laura’s advice aside, I don't have a lot to work with. Two plates pressed together to flatten my breast as much as possible. It was one of those “you may feel an uncomfortable pressure” - not to be confused with pain - situations. All told, it took only a few moments to get the two views of my breast, one from above and one angled from the side.
Luckily, there was a doctor there to read the results for me. She made me nervous at first, because she asked to have a couple of re-shots, saying that she wanted to see "my nipple in profile". I always imagined that a woman saying that to me would be grounds for divorce, but then she came back with the news that my condition looked like an abscess of some sort. Probably caused by an insect bite or ingrown hair. Antibiotics were prescribed and it cleared it up within a couple of weeks.
All in all, things turned out well. Granted, now I can't remove my shirt when I play volleyball for fear of breaking some obscenity law by exposing my nipples. At the very least, the scare reminded me not to take my time, my family, or my friends for granted because I didn't know how long I would be with them.
And my sons appreciate how great my maternal instincts are.
Again, a special thanks to Morbid Curiosity’s editor, Loren Rhoads. Moving on to concentrate on her writing which is everyone’s gain (except those competing for the same markets she submits to).
***
I don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to stop by and say hi, do so on my message board. I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
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