I was barely a b-cup when my pediatrician recommended I go see an ob-gyn (Obstetrician-Gynecologist). I was 16 going on 17 and in my senior year of high school. I was shy, studious, and quite sheltered by my doting parents. I was the youngest in my grade, at the top of my class, and nominated for homecoming queen. Yet suddenly not much of it mattered.
The day I had to go see a gynecologist for the first time in my life will forever be etched into my memory. I sat embarrassed and shaking in a waiting room that felt too big, too full, and too cold. My dad sat next to me, receiving cold stares and disapproving eyes from the expecting mothers and women in the room. I looked young for sixteen, much too young to be seeing a gynecologist. People are judgmental, even cruel, when they don’t know better.
Worse than sitting in the waiting room was the appointment itself. The doctor asked me routine questions. “Are you on birth control? Are you sexually active? Is it possible you might have an STI? Do you have a family history of breast cancer?” The answer to all of the above was no except for the last. I felt intimidated and uncomfortable; my dad was still in the room. She then asked my dad to exit the room while she examined me. She felt my breast, found the mass, then proceeded with an ultrasound. The process itself wasn’t painful, but the lack of communication from my doctor and her warm but sad smile was unsettling.
“How long has the mass been there?” she asked. I wanted to make something up, but the truth was I had no idea. I barely had boobs; so I didn’t think I had to worry. The appointment ended with a much traumatized dad and a speechless me. My breast were too small for a mammogram. I was scheduled a biopsy to rule out breast cancer. She handed me some pamphlets and sent me on my way. The probability was small, but I needed to prepare myself.
I had always been an optimistic person. But I couldn’t find the optimism in this. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I was playing in powderpuff games, giving myself bangs, applying to colleges; I’d just met a cute guy. Yet this had become my life. I read medical journals on all the possibilities; I immersed myself in the content while keeping to myself what was going on. No one outside of me and my parents knew what I was going through.
I was promised a biopsy would be no big deal. It was my nurse’s first week, and she looked as scared as I felt. Everyone looked at me with a hidden pity in their eyes. I was the poor sixteen year old being tested for cancer. They don’t tell you how painful a biopsy really is. No one mentions that local anesthetics don’t always work on everyone. “You should just feel pressure,” I was told time and time again. But pressure wasn’t the only thing I felt.
My entire left arm was in riveting pain from having to keep it up and still for just over an hour. I felt every ounce of pain as they cut, probed, and stuck me with a needle almost as wide as a pencil. They injected me with an entire tube of one local anesthetic before realizing I was immune to it and changing to and injecting me with half of another. I felt everything. The kind nurse held my hand. She let me squeeze until her hand turned purple. She felt my pain almost as much as I did.
The worst part wasn’t behind me. I went through all of that pain to be told the test was inconclusive. I would have to go into surgery and have the mass removed with the surrounding tissue. Surgery was a piece of cake. Over a long weekend in October I went into surgery on a Saturday morning and came out with a Vicodin prescription and a 7-inch scar on my outer breast. It was uncomfortable and difficult to do things like raise my are or shower, but compared to the bruising and pain I’d experienced after my botched biopsy, surgery was a breeze.
The results were up a few weeks later and my surgeon informed me finally that I did not indeed have breast cancer. However, I did have a benign condition called “Juvenile Fibroadenoma.” I could continue to get these masses until my late twenties, even the rest of my life. I didn’t tell people about my experience for a long time. I was embarrassed of my scar, and self-conscious of myself. I still feel like something is wrong with me as a woman and as a person sometimes.
The probability of me having breast cancer at 16 according to the Cancer Treatment Center of America, was only around one in a million. This wasn’t emphasized to me because a low risk doesn’t make it impossible. With my family history I have a significant risk of developing breast cancer, and I’m glad I went through what I did.
It’s important for women to know the risks they might be under. Women of color, especially latina or black women, are more likely to get fibroadenomas at a younger age. Women who have fibroadenomas are more likely to have breast cancer in the future – 1.5 to 2 times more likely. Some studies are even investigating if they are a precursor to developing ovarian cancer.
Breast cancer isn’t the only problem a woman can have in her breasts and it’s important to realize this and be informed.  It’s important to self-examine and schedule a yearly visit to an ob-gyn.
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