My Latest Journey: Finding the Silver Lining in my diagnosis of breast cancer

DAY 13
Welcome to my first entry about the latest trial and tribulation in the life of Claire Petretti. I hope that by blogging my journey with this disease that I will help not only myself, but also others. I’ve got no clue if that is possible but, it is worth a shot. My intent is to try to find the silver lining. At present, the outlook appears dark.

On January 2nd, while putting lotion on after taking a shower, I found a lump in my breast. It felt like someone had inserted a marble under my skin. An alien marble. An interloper. It felt absolutely wrong. Immediately, I knew that it was serious.

Sunday crawled at a snail’s pace.

After today’s entry, I will go back and fill in the first 12 days. I've been waking up at 1 or 2am and writing because I can't sleep. I especially need to share Diagnosis Day: via phone 10 minutes prior to teaching my 8:30am yoga class.

Today’s MRI was my least favorite, well, oops, my second least favorite test of the last few weeks. The needle biopsy last week was terrible and I have the black and yellow bruises to prove it. Today, however, I was dreading the discordant cacophony emanating inside the MRI chamber. Gunfire, jackhammer, 1980s speed-metal, take your pick. When I had an MRI of my neck a few years ago, I was convinced that my brain was being drained by the alien sounding noise. Think Matrix. Stealing your brain through the ear.

So, I was prepared for that. Not happy but, nevertheless prepared. Being subjected to this seemingly endless myriad of tests makes me feel like a science experiment. Or, that I've been captured by the above-referenced aliens and they are testing me to see if they'll just dissect me for parts or if I may be worthy for breeding little half-aliens. As you can tell, the MRI’s deafening coffin-like interior is not designed for those with a vivid imagination.

My fun began with an IV being inserted into my arm for the purpose of injecting dye into my system. Apparently, that is how things show up on the MRI. Nobody told me about the IV. I hate needles. In the past, nurses would laugh at me because I had to lie down anytime I gave blood or I would faint. It would have been nice to receive a warning about the ink injection.

As I am not blessed with a poker face, I could not pretend like I didn’t mind. It hurt. It grossed me out. And, again, it made me feel like a specimen. But, the fun was yet to come. For a breast MRI, you open up your robe and lay with your boobs hanging down into two slots and your face smushed into a massage table head rest. Let me tell you, this failed to resemble any massage I've ever had.

Picture me face down with tennis shoes and socks peeking out from the robe. Arms stretched overhead with the IV protruding out. To complete my ensemble, the technician stuffed a pair of giant headphones from the 80s onto my head to provide music. Where is a good photographer when you need one? I'm determined to find that silver lining each step of the way. The best I can do here is appreciate that the first song was Somewhere Around Midnight, one of my favorites. Unfortunately, it couldn't drown out the horrible brain-sucking sounds of the MRI machine.

Test ended. IV removed. OUCH. Red tape wrapped around my bandaged arm.

Since my diagnosis, everyone tells me to avoid sugar. That it causes cancer cells to multiply, that it is the breeding ground for everything from the devil to yes, cancer. And, I've been good so far.

Distraught after this fourth test in less than a week, I proceeded directly to the closest bakery. Sporting a large welt across my forehead from the machine, I must have looked more forlorn and pathetic than I realized because the bakery lady allowed me to not only select my cinnamon roll, she warmed it up and added extra frosting. Said cinnamon roll was approximately the size of my head. My head is large. Size Large hat large. It was the perfect fuel for teaching my 10:35 am yoga class at Frogs Encinitas. I won't have any sugar tomorrow, promise. I don't want to get cancer or anything.

Okay, I'm going to read now. Something unrelated to this disease. Tomorrow I'll return to fill in all the details from the doctor's exam, the mammogram, the ultrasound, and the biopsy the same day, the combination of which culminated in me chugging a Mike's Hard Lemonade. From a quart bottle. Housed in a brown paper bag.

An overwhelming thank you to everyone in my life for the generous outpouring of love and support. I am amazed, humbled and blessed to have such a powerful circle around me and I need and love each and every one of you.