A weight off my chest
A lot of times, my mind is my own worst enemy.
Historically, I’m a pretty huge hypochondriac. It was particularly bad in high school and parts of college. In high school, I bid my friends farewell because I was certain I had cancer. In college, I experienced a months-long mental break that stemmed from a fear I was developing schizophrenia.
Neither of those things were anywhere near true, and I based them on absolutely nothing. I just, you know, felt like I was dying.
Since college my medical anxiety has gotten far better. I’m able to let things go if, you know, there’s no reason to worry. Now imagine the wondrous, worrisome places my mind went when I was given a tangible reason to panic last week.
I’d been experiencing some pain on the left side of my chest for about a month, right under the nipple. It was strangely tender. After waiting for it to go away, I saw my doctor, who quickly found a small lump where the pain was.
That caught my attention.
As he was putting me in for an ultrasound and mammogram, I stammered a question the answer to which I hoped would ease my worry.
“Hey, um … I’m kind of a hypochondriac, and I – I, uh, was just wondering what the chances of this being cancer are.”
He said anything’s possible, but I’m at a weirdly young age, and gender, to get breast cancer.
“My money wouldn’t be on anything bad,” he said.
Now, I’d imagine that answer would put some people at ease. It wouldn’t completely eliminate that worry, but it would soothe the panic a bit. And at first, I was soothed. But then my old friend, Will’s Brain, came out to play a little bit, that rascal. I began to think about all the things I’d read online (I know) that pointed my symptoms to cancer. My head swirled with different excuses for my doctor’s obvious incompetence.
This brings me to yesterday’s proceedings, when I walked into Dublin Methodist Hospital for the tests my doctor scheduled me for after trying to find the correct entrance for 10 minutes. I sat down on the table for the ultrasound, and I was subjected to one of the more awkward medical procedures.
The nurse who administered the test said since I was under 30, they’d only do the mammogram if the radiologist saw something troublesome on that ultrasound. The doctor came in and immediately said they were going to go ahead with the mammogram, so that raised some alarms.
After the mammogram, the radiologist came back in and, after some agonizingly hushed words with the technician, told me the news.
It’s gynecomastia, a small mass of excess breast tissue causing soreness. It’s noncancerous and likely not a big deal.
But, this is always how it goes. In high school and college I’d worry about something and go to a doctor, where I’d immediately be told it’s nothing, and that I’m an idiot.
If you feel like you should get something looked at, do it. It’ll make you feel better.
Oh, and I suppose writing this did help get this little ordeal off my chest.
-Will Channell is a reporter for the Journal-Tribune.