Why I Dread but Never Skip My Annual Mammogram as a Black Woman

It is that time of year again. It is time for my annual breast exam.

My grandmother had breast cancer and had a lumpectomy. Eventually, in her 80s, it metastasized, and she died from the disease. This past spring my aunt was diagnosed. She had surgery and they say they got it all.

I go every year religiously, without fail, for my mammogram. I am very scared of getting breast cancer. It has taken my most favorite person and I do not want it to take me too.

Black women die at a higher rate than white women from breast cancer. This is because of bias in health care, and lack of access to services and culturally competent care. I do not want to be another statistic, so I work very hard to stay vigilant.

I dread the time before the mammogram and after. My mind plays tricks on me and all I can think of is how this time they are going to find something, and this will be the beginning of the end. I always make a first appointment in the morning because I know I will not sleep the night before. I go without jewelry or deodorant, so I am an easy patient. Luckily it does not hurt me — at least I am not dreading that.

After each scan, I try to see the pictures on the computer, trying my hand at being a radiologist. Sometimes I think I see something. I worry.

They say, “Thank you, Ms. Lorde. We will contact you by mail with your results.” The mail you want and do not want. Is this the year they tell me I am dying?

I spend my long week waiting for the mail thinking about how I will notify everyone that I have breast cancer. Figuring out who I would call first and thinking about how all of them would react. I think about my job and could I do it while sick (I need the income). Would I get a second opinion or go with the first doctor I speak with? Would I announce it on social media? Could I handle all the unsolicited advice? Could I handle all the condolences?

I have been ill all my life with a mental health condition. When I got diagnosed with bipolar disorder, no one wanted to hear about it. No one would know how to react. I felt shame and told no one. The irony is that I have had suicidal ideation most of my life and now I am worried about dying.

No casseroles for me when I was suicidal. But now if I have cancer, I am sure to get casseroles.

I also plan how I would tell my 15-year-old daughter. Would her adoptive moms let me spend more time with her now that I am dying? Would I finally join a church again to make sure I was going to heaven and have a minister I know to bury me?

It is scary to have a mammogram. It is scary to once a year take a test that could determine your fate. You have no control over cancer, and it can strike you at any time.

Even in my fear, I also think about my friends. How they will take care of me and make sure I am not alone in this. How they will go to appointments, cook meals, sleep over, cheer me up, and make me laugh.

It reminds me I am not alone. I will be OK no matter the outcome. I have God’s love and she has sent me angels and I will be forever cared for.

I finally got my letter in the mail. No signs of cancer. I can breathe easy again. One more year.

Mighty women, you can have your mammogram every year like clockwork too. You are brave. You are Mighty strong!