Kirsty Rice has four children, a loving husband – and breast cancer. In these extracts from her blog, she reveals her innermost thoughts as she tackles the momentous changes after receiving her diagnosis.
August 23rd
I can’t imagine there’s ever a convenient time for a cancer diagnosis, but mine felt particularly discommodious.
It was our last “fun” day before heading back to Qatar. I’d planned lunch with a girlfriend and for the first time in what seemed liked weeks of a grey and wet Adelaide winter, the sun came out over stunning blue skies. Saturday would be a day of packing and cleaning before flying out in the wee hours of Sunday morning. The fridge had been slowly cleared, and the last minute jobs were diminishing tick by tick from the list.
I drove into town for my mammogram reminding myself of what needed to be done in the next day. Pick up the barbecue cover from the hardware store on the way home, buy some vanilla essence at the supermarket, grab that last bit of dry-cleaning. I scored a rock star carpark at the front of the clinic and settled into the familiar waiting room, I’d been there for a mammogram a year or so ago.
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The longer I waited the more agitated I became. I didn’t need to be here. I was sure there was nothing wrong. I was going to be late for lunch. And why were they making me have a mammogram when the GP had suggested an ultrasound?
As the radiographer arranged my bosom between the cold glass plates of the machine I made small talk. “So do you get your mammograms done here?” I asked. She did. Her boss did them. I thought of all the things I’d done with various bosses over the years – no boob holding.