By Joelle Cleo Valente
Episode 1 - THE SQUATTER -
1 - My routine self check - How it all started
In October 2023, coming back from a run, I noticed a little bump on the top right side of my breast when taking a shower. It was barely visible to the naked eye, no pain or discomfort were noted. Puzzled, I tried to make sense of this intruder by recalling an incident on my right shoulder a week prior as a possible explanation.
Keeping a positive mindset and pushing away the thought of “could it be the ‘C’ word?” I phoned my primary care physician, a no-nonsense, old fashioned woman that I trust and respect. She immediately ordered a mammogram/ultrasound, reassuring me that whatever it was, we will get to the bottom of it together and not to worry.
I rang a friend for the drive to the breast center located forty minutes away from my house to brighten the undertaking. The facility dealt exclusively with breast care, an impressive building with several wings that looks like a hospital and a waiting room full of anxious women waiting.
Overwhelmed and confused about my visit to such a place, I felt like an impostor intruding in other people’s business, thinking that’s a bit much for just a mammogram check up? Besides, I have never been sick in my life, and there is no “C” word in my family history. Of course I’ve had mammograms before, but the surroundings were more casual.
I needed to snap out of this twilight zone presto and be present mentally. I took a deep breath, grabbed a glass of water from the cooler and sat back waiting for my turn. A strong nudge from my friend Pam woke me out of my stupor. “Hey! they called your name twice already,” she whispered. “I’ll be outside waiting for you when you’re ready, chin up girl.”
2 - The exam - May the show begin
After a ritual checking in, a nurse came to pick me up, instructing me to remove my clothes from the waist up in a cool and collected manner that demanded no more inquiry from me. “Put on a gown and wait in the designated area, someone will come and get you.”
My name was mentioned again as a new woman in her early 30s stepped in, introducing herself as the technician in charge of mammograms, displaying a warm smile as he could sense my angst. She was very pleasant, apologizing in advance for the breast squeezing, flattening, pretzel twisting positions, cold surface and cold hands.
“Almost done,” she claimed, “one down, one more to go.” I knew she was trying to make me feel at ease, but it wasn’t working – by no fault of her own. Apprehensive to ask, I mumbled something like, “Did you find anything?”
“Your left breast is clear, but it seems that your right breast needs further exams,” she replied calmly, offering me a lollipop to seal the deal as we walked to the ultrasound room, where I was barely greeted by another lady in her 50s with a stern demeanor who clearly didn’t want to be there.
She briefly described her next move and went on with the painless “transaction.” I tried to relax and clear my thoughts, but my heart was pounding and my cloudy brain kept on shouting, “Get out of there.” What's with this place that made me feel so uncomfortable? I didn’t recognize myself. Once again I blabbered something like, “Did you see anything significant for me to worry about?”
She dismissed my request immediately with a cold, “Front desk will proceed with your checkout and will inform you about a follow up if necessary.” In a hurry to get me out the door, she blurted a “Yeah right” when I wished her a good day, which she clearly needed.
Happy to change into my civilian clothes, I was back again in the main waiting room packed with newcomers scrambling to find seating, puzzled by this insane scene of women, young, old, alone or flanked with friends or family members, for “the” special visit, I couldn’t help thinking how insane this was. Who are all these women? Why so many? Is there an epidemic of some sort I’m unaware of?
I was asked to wait again for my paperwork by one of the front desk girls – they were girls really, in their early twenties, cackling as they couldn’t pronounce anyone’s name correctly and didn’t care to, doing it as their distraction for another boring day at the office.
Another forty-five minutes went by before my name was voiced for the last time (I hoped). I was told that a biopsy was scheduled for the following week, asking me to contact my doctor for more details, giving me my walking paper with no more details besides how to prepare for the procedure.
I guess that was all for today, folks!
I lastly stepped out of the facility looking for Pam, I breathed deeply, and felt such a relief. I realized that the energy inside these walls was full of pain, suffering and mental anguish that triggered my uneasiness and panic mode. I made a mental note to protect and prepare myself for my next appointment to the collective heartache that place was.
The drive home was a cinch. I kept on taking deep breaths, feeling more at peace with the next exhale. Pam was chatting away, explaining that she had to leave the waiting room because “the air was suffocating.” Those were her words, I wasn’t crazy! Pam felt it, too.
The next day I phoned my doctor to chat about the next step, the biopsy, as she outlined the procedure as being a positive move to the next step in making the right decision and action toward recovery. She continued her positive reinforcement by saying: “We’re no longer in medieval times my dear, all will be resolved in due time, trust me.”
She’s such a peach!
I sensed that a new chapter of my life was about to unfold, calming myself with the understanding that my combative nature and sense of humor would overcome these fears, noticing that the unknown was my enemy at this time. “One day at a time” was my new motto, reminding myself that I have walked through many storms already and emerged enlightened by the lessons I have learned.
“Everything that shows up in our lives has something to teach us” - Wayne Dyer
To be continued …
Joelle Cleo Valente
AKA: Cleo Valente is an award-winning filmmaker with two decades of experience in the entertainment industry, working for major networks as a writer, producer, for major shows and independent productions.
Contact: realgrlproductions@gmail.com
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