I count the ceiling tiles. Four across, then eight and a half down, one with a chipped corner and a faint brown water stain. I take in the framed picture of a desolate pasture with a broken-down barn and some tired-looking cows. The thick beige textured wallpaper and the brown tweedy carpet complement the despair of the painting, and their industrial nature and obvious durability overshoot anything that will happen here, which is mostly just waiting.
My tiny pod is one of a corral of tiny pods containing breasts to be examined, like parts to be inspected on the line at a Ford plant. The conveyor belt rolls all day, every day, breasts in, breasts out, good news, bad news. The only thing worse than being on the conveyor belt might be working the line.
I tried to chat up the woman in the cat-eye glasses as she silly-puttied my breasts into a plastic vice, but all I got was a tight smile and a warning, “Don’t move, don’t breathe”. I twist, contort, and comply. Satisfied with her handiwork, she placed me back in my pod and left to round up the next breast.
As I wait, I wonder how many women’s feet have rested on this same patch of carpet as they waited for the green light to rush back to their lives. I imagine us, an array of women waiting in our wrinkled gowns with their faded patterns, missing ties and broken snaps. Old women who assume they’ve made it past this threat and are on to others; young women anxious to get back to their babies or are grateful for this time away; women who feel the shadow of breast cancer from their moms, sisters or grandmothers; busy women who take care of emails that only later will seem insignificant and women like me whose default is to believe that everything will always be OK.
I don’t usually feel the weight of this wait; never noticed the cow picture before, don’t have any symptoms and barely have breasts. I need to pace, but this tiny brown space is for for sitting and standing and waiting and hoping. Instead, I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, hold for a moment, then exhale deeply. This was something that helped me get through Randy’s cancer and the lonely time after. Often, it felt like it was the only control I had, but it was enough to get me through a moment that needed getting through.
“OK to come in? Says the nurse.
“I’m ready,” I say. And I breathe.
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