It began with an itch I just had to scratch. Doesn't every adventure begin that way?
I was lying in bed reading on a Saturday evening, and without even looking I idly scratched a spot on the right side of my chest -- at that point I had a chest, not breasts. As I did, my fingers rode over a small something, a little like a speed bump about an inch below and two inches to the left of my right nipple.
I stopped reading and started poking. And prodding. And pushing. And feeling. And manipulating. And panicking.
"That's a lump!" I thought, and suddenly I had a right breast. With a lump in it.
I spent Sunday attending to the usual chores and pleasures, with a good deal of poking and prodding added in. There was absolutely no question that something was dwelling there, beneath my AAAA right breast. But what was it? And what was I worried about? After all, I'm a man, and men don't... Well, yes, men do get breast cancer. In fact about 1 in every 1,000 men will develop breast cancer during their lifetimes. Granted, that's barely worth mentioning compared to a woman's 1 in 8 chances, but it still means that the possibility was indeed real that something ugly and malignant was barely hiding beneath my skin.
The following day, I already had an appointment with my primary care physician about something else, and when we were finished I said, "So, Sam, I seem to have this lump in my right breast."
Suddenly, my normally garrulous physician grew serious. "Let's take a look," he said, asking me to lie down on the examining table. He had me show him where I thought the lump was and I instantly isolated it -- I'd already felt the damned thing enough times to be able to go right to it.
He felt it, felt around it, poked and prodded, and in less than a minute said, "You're right, there's something there." Then, without further kidding -- which I'd expect from him -- and without any, "Well, it's probably nothing, but let's be sure," he sat down at the computer and started typing. "I'm putting in an order for a ultrasound and a mammogram," he said. "For tomorrow."
Mammowhat?! Mammogram? Me? But I'm a man! And at 67? Is this some really, really weird dream I'm about to wake up from? How in God's name were they going to do a mammogram when there's practically no mam on my chest?
But into the rabbit hole, through the door marked "Women (almost) Only," I went. Though not before Googling "male breast cancer" and convincing myself that I was going to die: family history? Check. Average age of 68? Check. Sometimes Google is not your friend.
And here's the rest of the story -- and photos.
from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://ift.tt/1pCp3D4
via IFTTT
I was lying in bed reading on a Saturday evening, and without even looking I idly scratched a spot on the right side of my chest -- at that point I had a chest, not breasts. As I did, my fingers rode over a small something, a little like a speed bump about an inch below and two inches to the left of my right nipple.
I stopped reading and started poking. And prodding. And pushing. And feeling. And manipulating. And panicking.
"That's a lump!" I thought, and suddenly I had a right breast. With a lump in it.
I spent Sunday attending to the usual chores and pleasures, with a good deal of poking and prodding added in. There was absolutely no question that something was dwelling there, beneath my AAAA right breast. But what was it? And what was I worried about? After all, I'm a man, and men don't... Well, yes, men do get breast cancer. In fact about 1 in every 1,000 men will develop breast cancer during their lifetimes. Granted, that's barely worth mentioning compared to a woman's 1 in 8 chances, but it still means that the possibility was indeed real that something ugly and malignant was barely hiding beneath my skin.
The following day, I already had an appointment with my primary care physician about something else, and when we were finished I said, "So, Sam, I seem to have this lump in my right breast."
Suddenly, my normally garrulous physician grew serious. "Let's take a look," he said, asking me to lie down on the examining table. He had me show him where I thought the lump was and I instantly isolated it -- I'd already felt the damned thing enough times to be able to go right to it.
He felt it, felt around it, poked and prodded, and in less than a minute said, "You're right, there's something there." Then, without further kidding -- which I'd expect from him -- and without any, "Well, it's probably nothing, but let's be sure," he sat down at the computer and started typing. "I'm putting in an order for a ultrasound and a mammogram," he said. "For tomorrow."
Mammowhat?! Mammogram? Me? But I'm a man! And at 67? Is this some really, really weird dream I'm about to wake up from? How in God's name were they going to do a mammogram when there's practically no mam on my chest?
But into the rabbit hole, through the door marked "Women (almost) Only," I went. Though not before Googling "male breast cancer" and convincing myself that I was going to die: family history? Check. Average age of 68? Check. Sometimes Google is not your friend.
And here's the rest of the story -- and photos.
from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://ift.tt/1pCp3D4
via IFTTT
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