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How I Survive the Worst Day of the Year (Every Year)

How I Survive the Worst Day of the Year (Every Year)

Hello All,

I don't write as much for Ravishly as I'd like--they have a big backlog, often a few months long, and my writing focus is in different places these days. I am so grateful they gave breast cancer "a voice" through my blog posts...more than a dozen of them.

Here is my latest Ravishly article, about how I survive the worst day of the year (when I go for my mammo). It started as something to still my fears, which I just wrote out...and it turned into an article. Here's the link:

And here's the article below, in its entirety:

How I Survive the Worst Day of the Year (Every Year)

Catherine Gigante-Brown

For me, the worst day of the year isn’t tax day. It isn’t when my mother-in-law visits. (She’s a lovely woman…really.) It isn’t even the day after Election Day when a total asshat gets voted into office. As a breast cancer survivor, the worst day of the year is when I go for my mammogram. True, nobody actually likes mammos but I’ve been bitten by one.

Walking to the train on shaky legs for my annual squishing, I realized that I have a bunch of coping strategies. For starters…

I gird my loins. – Literally. I surround myself with meaningful objects given to me by people I love. I think of it as my armor, my shield. I wrap the beautiful silk scarf my friend Laxmi brought me from India around my neck. Twice. I slip the silver coins that read “Faith,” “Hope and “Courage” into my pocket, a present from my friend Joni. If it’s raining, I carry the umbrella my friend Elaine gave me. And guess what? I feel cradled, cuddled, cherished, protected.

I color myself happy. – Just in case the loin-girding doesn’t work, I draw strength from my favorite color. My undies, socks, shirt and anything else I can muster is blue. My fave shade and my mom’s, too. For some reason, it makes me feel strong, so I’ll take it.

I find the humor. – Yes, there’s even a funny side to abject fear. Your job—find it! I tell myself that with only one boob, it will take half the time. And my chances of something being wrong are 50%. (Not really, but it helps.)

I create a diversion. – Something. Anything. Exchanging niceties with a stranger on the street. Admiring the beautiful cherry blossom tree blooming on the sidewalk. (Which echoes the cherry blossom tattoo I have across my mastectomy scar.) Talking with a kind stranger about said cherry blossom tree. Whatever I can do to bamboozle myself into not fretting about the mammo-jammo, I do.

I tell “Bad Cathy” to shut the hell up. – Sometimes Bad Cathy is stubborn and doesn’t want to listen. Sometimes she seems to enjoy feeling bad. Sometimes I just have to ask Bad Cathy nicely, and just like that, the still, small voice that asks, “What if” is quiet. I switch off the imaginary audio of me telling my husband, “They found something…” Because they didn’t. Not yet. Not this time. Hopefully.

I make it “social.” – Instead of acting like my feelings are a dirty, little secret, I post them on social media. I Tweet. Hey, Facebook asks, “What’s on your mind?” in my homepage’s rectangle. So, I tell them. And people—sometimes even people I don’t know—come to the rescue. They post words of encouragement which warm my heart.

I try good, old-fashioned Catholic voodoo. – I’m not even religious but I practice foxhole faith by taking my cross out of the cobwebs and hanging it around my neck. In a knee-jerk reaction, I make the sign of the cross before I take the elevator up to the imaging office. I even say a silent prayer. Hey, maybe I am religious…because it’s a comfort.

I do fun stuff, before and after. – I treat myself to lunch out. A mani/pedi. A CD/shirt/bracelet. Coffee with a good buddy. Or all of the above. And guilt-free. Because with all that worry, I deserve it, damn it.

But the reality is nothing really works when you’re sitting in the waiting area, swaddled in that ugly, beige wrap (open to the front, please). I have to remind myself to breathe and choke back the frightened tears. I’ve been down this road before and once it didn’t work out so well for me. But I’m here. I’m still here. I fought. I endured chemo. Infections. I kicked cancer’s butt. Once. If I had to, I could do it again.

I don’t tell all of this to the two women sitting in the waiting room with me. I hope they don’t notice that I don’t have a breast on the left side. I don’t tell them because they’re both here for follow-up mammograms and they’re scared. Probably more scared than I am. I just wish them luck.

And in the end, it’s fine. The technician doesn’t ask for a retake. In fact, she tells me that she likes my tattoo, that I’m a rock star.

My mammogram’s fine. I’m fine. Until next year. But four years and counting, I’ll take the fear, I’ll take the dread, just so I’m still around to feel it again next year.

7 Replies

My follow up mammogram in July 3rd. Thank you for sharing your experience. I will keep your thoughts in my mind. Even though I am an xray technologist I am very anxious. Probably because of what I have seen. But really because of what I have been through, like you and so many others. We share that fear of recurrence. And if the worst happens, I will deal with it as I have done this past year. We are strong because we have to be.

Thank you for your inspiration


I'm glad the article helped. Think positive and keep strong.

1 like

Love this...


Mammograms have never shown cancer in my breast! Even though I had three of them in the 13 months before being diagnosed with mbc, and even in the years since when we absolutely know that there are cancer cells in there! Lobular bc is very sneaky. The hardest thing for me when I go for my annual mammogram is the total absence of any signs or pamphlets or info about mammograms missing some breast cancers! The first several years after I was diagnosed, either the RN or the radiologist would examine my breasts. Now they don't even do that. I wish the medical establishment and the bc community would do a better job of educating people about the limits of mammograms.

1 like

Good to know. Thanks for pointing this out! BC is indeed sneaky, especially lobular. I wish you the best of luck.


Great strategies! Thank you for sharing these with us and so glad your mammo looked good this year. : )


Thanks, Melissa. So far so good. The worry never totally goes away but goes to a different, more manageable place, I think.


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