As I lowered myself down onto the uncomfy frame of the MRI machine for my first-ever breast biopsy, I tried to fend off my nerves by focusing on the benign aspects of my immediate surroundings. Inches from my face was a machine-related sticker that I couldn’t quite make out, as half of it had been torn away. I assumed that was just due to the age of the machine, but I did wonder how this part of the platform got enough wear and tear to rip a hefty sticker (there really wasn’t anything else to look at). Oh well. Twenty minutes later, as a combination of tears and snot dripped down my nose and onto that platform below my face, I couldn’t help but notice through blurry eyes that they splattered into the void of the sticker’s missing half. Hold on. Had this happened before? Could it be that my feelings of complete isolation and embarrassment in this moment are not unique? Do I dare speculate that these intractable tears were shed before by a multitude of other women, subjected to a procedure without the ensurance of proper preparation, comfort or pain management? Regardless of whether this was reality or my desperate grasp for solidarity, I was in sisterhood with all of those hypothetical women who came before me to cry those same tears onto that same platform. Tears of fear, pain, maybe even resentment at the injustice of it all. Do the doctors know this happens? Do they wonder why the platform is wet after these tests? Exactly how common is this emotional response to what would seemingly be a few simple needle sticks?
I have yet to find the answers to any of my questions, so I am only left to speculate.
…
To be honest, I was on the verge of tears from the time I got in the car with my daughter that morning. I held it back and tried to listen to music I like (yes, it was Taylor Swift). I dropped her off at camp early so I could make it to my appointment in time, and I shot off a few texts to friends and my sister to seek vibes and support, as I felt I needed it. Their responses were wonderful but served to make it harder to hold back the emotions.
I got there and was taken back quickly, after a call from an old bestie suggesting that maybe I’m just a lumpy bitch and it’ll all be fine, which served to elicit my single much-needed laugh of the morning.
I showed up dehydrated, which made for an unpleasant start to the process as an IV needed to be placed. I was beating myself up and lamenting my chronic dehydration but I remained subdued and friendly as they explained the biopsy procedure. Despite my jittering insides, I was extremely relieved to finally be at this appointment after a month of waiting.
I expected the initial needles with the lidocaine to sting, and I can handle that. The first stick pinched more than expected, but it didn’t make me flinch and it dissipated quickly. Okay, one down. Immediately she began doing work in that area which felt like digging with a needle. I braced myself and I was okay for the most part, but the fear of this unknown procedure coupled with the unexpected pain made my chin tremble and tears filled my eyes. My thoughts swirled with questions: What is happening? Why can I feel pain? Is this supposed to hurt? Keep it together, Ame. Silent tears ran down my nose and made me long for a tissue. I dreaded the moment when they had me sit up, as my tears would surely be discovered. I took a breath and vowed to cut it out so maybe they’d never know. I soon learned that lying face-down on an MRI machine can only protect my pride for so long.
I thought the lidocaine was done after the first one, but apparently each site needed its own shot. The second one was more painful, perhaps because it was unexpected. The second round of digging was what broke me, though. I am not sure if the lidocaine hadn’t taken full effect yet or if the digging fell outside the barrier of its reach, but I flinched multiple times, triggering half-hearted apologies from the doc. A nurse began rubbing my back for comfort and I appreciated her efforts, but actual pain management would have been preferable. I felt a sharp pang and dig of a needle all the way on the medial barrier of my breast, which not only hurt but shocked me since that is not the intended site of the biopsy. It didn’t feel close to the area of non-mass enhancement on my initial MRI and therefore I expected her to stay in the outer hemisphere of the breast. I realized later that due to the breast being in compression, everything was much closer together than it usually is. I guess needle slips happen, but at this sting, I began to full-on sob. Sure, it hurt, but I also think that my body could no longer hold it in. The pain, the fear, and the audacity of even being in this situation had all come to a head. ‘This lady’s really lost it,’ I assumed the staff to be thinking.
When it was finally over, they had me roll sideways onto a stretcher where the doc spent twenty additional minutes pressing on and kneading my freshly dug breast to get the bleeding to stop. Comments about how this amount of bleeding is unusual and questions about why I was upset did not help. Each time I thought I’d calmed down my chin would dance again and hot tears would fall to the pillow beneath my head. I longed to be alone with my grief- to cry in peace without stares or feigned concern.
The only thing they could think to do was to give me juice and a snack, so I took them because I thought they’d help me stop crying. The staff’s reactions to my emotional state told me I had an outsized response, which served to make it that much more isolating. I was asked, “Is anyone here with you?” and “Do you want to call someone?” I could only shake my head. Like an idiot, I had come alone. I had spiraled, and I had no choice but to sit in my shame and try to stop the tears so as to not make it any worse.
After the bleeding semi-stopped, she put steri strips on the incisions but I wasn’t yet cleared to leave. I needed a quick mammogram and replacement of the steri strips (see: ongoing bleeding) before I could finally bust out of there. Finally free, I sat in my car crying and texting updates to family and friends in whom I had confided. I sent the attached picture to prove I was okay- convincing, right? Why, oh why didn’t I take off of work today? Why did I come alone? I had no idea how traumatic and exhausting I would find this experience. I made it in to work for a few hours and it was a blur, crying in my office between patient visits. Then I went home and cried some more, taking more Tylenol and unsuccessfully resting.
…
This was an MRI-guided core needle breast biopsy, which was required because the area of concern could not be seen on either a mammogram or ultrasound. I needed to be in the MRI machine in order for the area to be biopsied accurately. This type of biopsy is not the one you want to have. I was warned that it is typically the least comfortable way to go about it (probably for all involved). Since one must lay face down in the MRI for the biopsy to take place, the staff is reaching under the machine and you can just imagine how awkward and difficult it is.
It was much more painful than I had imagined it would be- I never expected to be driven to tears over it. The cloud of the fear of cancer loomed overhead and the lightning of the digging needles caused my tears to rain down. Add to it the knocking, drilling and booms of the machine, and we had a full storm on our hands. There’s a feeling of betrayal- How dare this happen to people who are already scared of the outcome. In an effort to avoid surgery (as in a surgical biopsy) and provide a less-invasive procedure, women are being put through these experiences that they’ll not soon forget. Is this really better?
What I have found out since going through this is that many people do not come out traumatized like me. After the Lidocaine, many feel weird pressure, but not pain. My hunch is that the lack of delay after the lidocaine and the incomplete delivery of it for the size of the area were the culprits for me. To simplify, I was not given adequate pain medication, and when I communicated this, I was not offered more. Did the doctor not realize it takes some people a few minutes for it to kick in? Is there no protocol for asking whether a person is numb yet? I mean, my dentist takes both of these precautions for fillings, so why would this be different? What kind of rush does one have to be in, or what kind of dissociation does one have to achieve to ignore these precautions and then ignore sobs of a patient in pain? It feels barbaric. But then, is that just something we have come to expect in women’s healthcare?
Long story short, it was a bad time. I haven’t had an experience this negative in a while. I haven’t had to hold back tears (unsuccessfully) like this in a while and I haven’t had to cry in front of strangers like this in a WHILE. I still have a hard time removing myself from the emotions of the moment to think objectively how this reads to people who have never been through it or who have but with a completely different outcome. I fear it may come off as a gross over-reaction and that I will be seen as a whiny complainer who needs to get a grip. Think what you want, but this is how I perceived the experience, and writing about it now is helping be process through it. And to be fair, I’ve experienced unmedicated childbirth, so I know what pain with a purpose feels like. This felt unnecessary, which only added to the fear-pain-tension cycle I was already in.
After this longwinded account, you may be hoping I can report an ALL CLEAR and that this can all be soon forgotten. Unfortunately, I can say no such thing. I did not receive a cancer diagnosis, for which I am extremely grateful. However, even benign breast diseases sometimes require extensive further intervention, and here I am in the limbo of that. I am further along in my journey now, and there is much more to be shared. I know it will be cathartic for me personally to bring you along, so stay tuned if this interests you.
I’m so so sorry. I absolutely feel for you because I just went through exactly the same procedure about 10 days ago.
It was definitely not a pleasant procedure, and an extremely weird experience, but the doctor and two techs explained every step, what would happen next and described what it would feel like. He described the vibrating tool as ‘like an electric toothbrush.’ I think it helped immensely that they talked me through it. When I was referred for the biopsy, my provider offered to put in a prescription for Xanax to take beforehand (after signing the consent). I took her up on it, and I also think it was very helpful. I wish you had been given the option, and that they would have been better about communicating with you. Your response was absolutely not over the top.
Before getting to the biopsy appointment, I had to wait five weeks for the appointment which was awful… then another five days for the pathology report. Unfortunately mine was positive for DCIS, so will be headed to surgery soon.
Thank you so much for posting what you went through. It’s the first time I’ve read anyone’s experience with the procedure. Take care and I will follow your story.