(Original title – Hallowe’en)

There was an article that was posted the other day on news.com.au which spelled out what everyone knows anyway – 47% of people who Dr Google their symptoms end up convinced they have cancer. Usually, I would laugh at this, but I Dr Googled my symptoms (after I’d been to see the doctor) because I wasn’t convinced that it was just a skin infection like the GP hoped it was, and I wanted to know the worst-case scenario (spoiler alert: it’s cancer).

So I’m going to tell you a story from my secret side-writing project, about how I Dr Googled my way to cancer and was right.

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Look, let’s be real. Seeing or feeling something weird and then having that panicking thought of “holy shit, what if it’s cancer” goes through everyone’s mind at some point or another. Don’t lie, you know you’ve done it.

But what happens if your cancer isn’t a lumpy kind of cancer? What if it’s not a super obvious mole-gone-wrong kind of deal that everyone can see? What if it’s inflammatory? What if the first symptoms that appear are so subtle that you might miss them if you’re not working from home, showering at 10am and dancing in your room to the Hamilton soundtrack in front of the mirror naked when you’re supposed to be working on a tender submission for a developer?

That, my friends, is exactly what happened to me. If I hadn’t worked from home after working a ridiculous fortnight working on a tender for a massive development in Melbourne, if I hadn’t showered and spent a while singing in the bathroom (acoustics were ace), and then taken my time getting dressed, I may never have noticed the symptoms until it was far too late.

Inflammatory breast cancer is a particularly nasty thing to be afflicted with. It doesn’t present with the usual lumpy bits that people panic about. It looks like you’ve stood under hot water for too long in the shower. The swelling gives you a weird line from where the weight of your breast sits in the cup of your bra. You don’t notice it until the light is right, and you’re drying under your tits like you’re supposed to, and you feel the weird yellow ridge of the swelling and go “hmm, but I haven’t worn a bra in 24 hours.” And then you see the faint redness on the surface, and your nipple looks just a little paler than usual. You think “I’ll give it a few hours and call the doctor if it hasn’t settled down”.

And for the next four hours, it is all that occupies your thoughts. You can’t concentrate on emails. You count down the minutes that are now passing ridiculously slowly as you sit on the couch, braless, determined not to squish your mammary for fear of keeping the redness away as you wait out your seemingly reasonable 4-hour deadline for things to improve.

At 2pm, you look again. It looks exactly as it did four hours ago. You dial the GP and request an appointment with a female doctor, except she doesn’t work Mondays. The next available time they have available is Tuesday morning, and it’s with a guy. You don’t hesitate because shit, this could be a massive infection, or it could be cancer. No, there’s no lumps. It’s just some weird swelling. It’ll probably go down overnight. You take the appointment slot anyway and try not to think about it, but it still eats away at your thoughts.

The next day, you look in the mirror before your appointment and think maybe it doesn’t look as bad as it did, but it’s still noticeable. In some ways you’re relieved the symptoms are still there, because now you won’t look completely insane going to the doctor with this weirdness. Trudging off to the GP clinic, you explain what you’ve seen to your friendly doctor who looks concerned and examines you. He gives you antibiotics in case it’s a skin infection, and very clear, very strict instructions to return on Friday morning if the symptoms don’t get better because you’ll be referred for an ultrasound.

You’re feeling tired anyway, because exhaustion has been dogging you for weeks, so you arrange to work from home the rest of the week.

You talk to a friend about your weird tit and you google mastitis just in case it’s that when you get back home. You look at pictures of mastitis, but your boob doesn’t look like those boobs. Your search throws up associated links (thanks Google images) to inflammatory breast cancer. You look at those images. That’s more like what your boob looks like. It scares you, so you tell your friend you fell down the Google rabbit hole and scared yourself and you don’t look at it any more.

Thursday morning rolls around and you examine yourself closely in the mirror again. There’s no change at all. You call and make that appointment for the following morning, as early as possible.

The doctor does not look happy to see you on Friday morning. He examines you again and writes up the referral for imaging. You need to go today, end of story. Tell them it’s urgent.

Well, fuck. Maybe it is cancer.

Clarifying with the GP that your referral for your breast ultrasound can be done at any imaging place, not just the ones listed on the back, you call the ones closest to you while you sit behind the wheel of your brother’s car. Nothing until a week away. If you’re lucky, the GP will get the results later today if you get in before midday. You try other places as far away as Werribee. No luck. On a whim, you call the crappy place you hate going to but is usually not super busy. They can see you in 90 minutes. You book it. And there’s no out of pocket for the scan. Winner.

During the week, you’ve called your mum and let her know what’s been going on. You call her again before playing hooky from work and driving to the shopping centre across the road to get some donuts and drink tea before your appointment.

“Mum, I’m going for the ultrasound. It’s looking pretty serious.”

She tries to do The Good Mum Thing and reassure you that lumpy tits and cysts in boobs run in the family much more than breast cancer does and maybe it’s just dense breasts which has been all over the news in the leadup to October being breast cancer awareness month. You try to tell her that you’re pretty sure the doctor isn’t acting super concerned because of normal lumpy tits, and besides, there is no lump there, and that your skin is red and swollen and hot and Definitely Not Okay.

You order a cup of tea and two hot, fresh, soft cinnamon donuts, and a pink dinosaur because pink dinosaurs are the best donuts in the world and if it’s bad news at the ultrasound, you’ll want to eat it immediately.

You end up eating it in the car before the appointment.

Stripping off in the room and putting the gown on, you lay back on the table in the warm-but-not-too-warm-room. The radiographer is a young woman, very friendly. You warn her about your gross tit before she puts the cold gel on it, and she talks to you throughout the scan.

Then she goes quiet.

Then she spends a very long time on two areas. It hurts, but you don’t interrupt her. And she’d taken so very many still images of the screen.

She hands you some paper towels to wipe your wet boob free of the gel (there are never enough towels for this, so you grab some more from the table across the room), and you put your shirt back on. Usually they check with the boss that the films are fine, and they’re back in less than 90 seconds and telling you the GP will have the results in the next 24 hours. She’s gone for eight minutes. When she comes back, she tells you the GP will have the results in the next hour.

FUCK.

You’re a bit numb when you leave. This is bad, bad, bad. You go to your car and turn on the A/C and sit there in your hot little car and call your mum again to prepare her to hear more bad news later that afternoon.

When you get back home, you make an appointment with the GP because you don’t want to wait to be called in, or have to wait until tomorrow. You explain to the receptionist when she tells you there’s no appointments available that you just had an ultrasound and the results will be there shortly and it’s really urgent. She tells you they just arrived, and to come in at 3pm and wait for a bit, but the doctor will see you between appointments. And then you call work and let them know what’s going on and that you won’t be working that day.

You arrive back at the GP clinic at 3pm and wait, and wait, and wait. He calls you in at 3:40pm, and for a moment looks confused, and then realises why you’re there.

It’s not good news.

You need to go and see a breast surgeon, because it looks like it could be cancer.

You break the news to your mum in your third phone call to her that day. You don’t yet realise how good you will become at delivering bad news.