Like many people, I mark certain days in my life by memorable events both national and personal. I can tell you where I was when John F. Kennedy was shot and when Neil Armstrong put his first steps on the moon. Not all my memories are tied to outside events. Some are mile markers in my life—like marriages, divorces, and family occasions.
Shortly after my divorce, when I was doing my usual Friday night thing of watching
television—alone. Granted I was more of a party animal forty years ago than I am now, but even then, I did not maintain a lifestyle that anyone in their right mind would envy.
As I shifted positions to sprawl on the couch, I noticed a pain in my left breast and upon inspection, discovered a sizable lump. Large enough that I has no excuse to ponder the question, “Is this a problem, or not?” I needed to deal with it. At a time like that, so many things run through your mind. My maternal grandmother had two radical mastectomies. I wasn’t married, and my imagination took a dark turn as I visualized lopping off one breast which would either qualify me for spinsterhood or becoming an Amazon warrior. For the only time in my life, I regretted not choosing archery for my PE requirements.
After a restless night, I called my friend, Paulette, head of the American Cancer League. Paulette is petite, vivacious and energetic. I imagined her reaction to be quite different than reality. Two minutes into the conversation, I dropped my news. She became hysterical and had to hang up the phone, leaving me wondering why I had to brave it for both of us. But we were friends for a reason, and Paulette was nothing if not resilient. She called back with advice.
“Don’t bother going to your gynecologist. Go straight to your surgeon.”
My response was one of shock, “I’m thirty-four. I don’t have a surgeon.” A silence followed in which I had to question if everybody had a surgeon on speed dial. I certainly didn’t.
“I’ll help you find one. How do you feel about Elizabeth?” she asked.
Now one might assume that if I knew the names of surgeons, I could find one on my own. It was, after all, a fairly small town. While I knew that Elizabeth had become a doctor, I had no idea she was a surgeon. Nonetheless, I answered truthfully. “I didn’t like Elizabeth in the third grade. I don’t see myself becoming her patient now.”
Paulette is a much nicer woman that I am. She accepted my weak-assed answer without judgement. “Okay. Don’t give up. I’ll find you someone.”
Monday morning, she called back. “You don’t have an appointment but the office agreed to work you in between their other appointments. Show up at one.”
I’d never heard of the doctor, but I knew where the office was located. I was incredibly grateful I hadn’t had to make the call myself. It sounds so much better when someone pleads for you than when you are required to appear pathetic all on your own.
My mother and sister invited me to lunch. As a side note, let me say that my sister and I later developed an adversarial relationship, but at the time of this incident, things were still cordial between us. However, you might want to take into account that her reaction to this problem was a contributing factor as to why the bonds of sisterhood became strained.
The family joke (not particularly funny) is that I’m the family outlaw because everyone else is in law. However, with my ending up in prison, it took on an ominous quality of being an omen rather than humorous. Family events, including meals, were predominantly times used to discuss cases and pending litigation. Lunch was no exception. Most of the time, I don’t care. I learned to be self-entertaining at a young age.
At lunch, my sister announced that she wanted our mother to come to court with her that afternoon to help try a case, to which my mother said, “No, it’s overkill. You don’t need me.”
An argument ensued, which went on for several minutes while I moved food from one side of the plate to the other, too tense to eat. Finally, my sister asked, “What is so important that you can’t join me?”
As the noodles inched their way to a new location, my mother said, “I’m going to Hannah’s doctor’s appointment with her.” A profound sense of relief washed over me which lasted until my sister asked, “Why? It’s not like she’s going under the knife or anything?”
And with those words a sharp pain sliced my breast with an imaginary blade. My mother didn’t back down. Together, we went to the doctor’s office, which was a large square room filled with rooms that backed against all four walls. The only vacancies were two adjacent chairs with a corner table separating them. The room was unbelievably quiet. Of course, in my mind I was hearing the death knoll over my breasts scream into my eardrums.
My mother took her seat, picked up a magazine, and said in what I’m sure was a normal voice but sounded to me like she said, “HANNAH, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS?” as she held up a picture. The last time I’d felt this conspicuous was in middle school, when I believed my goal in life had been to never be noticed as I faded into the wallpaper.
I got called almost immediately and was convinced that the reason involved the receptionist believing it was the only method she could employ to silence my mother.
I waited in the windowless room, wearing nothing above my waist but the usual paper gown. The door opened, I turned to see Doogie Howser, the youngest doctor I’ve ever see in my life, entering the room. I don’t remember my exact thoughts, but I might have taken Paulette’s name in vain.
Dr. Doogie examined the breast and said, “Sure enough, that’s a lump.” At no time was I feeling reassured, complicated by the syringe in his hand with a four-foot-long needle that he plunged into the offending mass, all the time giving me the lecture on preventative care such as regular breast exams and mammograms.
Liquid, the color of tea, filled the syringe. “It’s a cyst,” he announced. The words had barely left his lips, when tears rolled down my cheeks. He looked confused. “This is the good news.”
“I know,” unable to stop crying.
I left the room. Paid the bill, which they’d calculated to be a standard doctor visit, not a procedure, and found my mother in the waiting room. In my absence she’d managed to get the entire room talking. I cheered her ability to loosen a room.
My relief was so palpable that I felt like Tiny Tim on Christmas Day and longed to scream to the heavens. “God bless us, everyone.” | HB