Through the Lens

The Lens of Reality

 

The hands are firm, precise and authoritative as they move over my tender breasts, lazily lounging from the temporary release of my bra. There is no intimacy, only the chapped palms of a stranger’s hand positioning my perky nipples upwards, then sideways and then in an angle that is slightly uncomfortable. There is a slight pressure, then more compression and then… ouch! This is not a scene between two lovers caressing the naked flesh of one other in the raptures of love making. This is the reality of what is like to have a mammogram: a formal survey of your insides and what fortune or misfortune they may reveal. An incredible amount of pressure melts me in submission as the technician squeezes the mass of flesh against the plastic flat containers, and the negative 45 reading shows the rating of pain is worsening as the numbers decrease; the camera lens takes in the intricate details of your breast tissue and what the future holds.

“Gladys” has been in this profession for at least thirty years she proudly tell me while her hollow voice bellows: Pull your stomach in, fling your hair back, arch towards the lens. This is grueling work and rather than being grateful for her directions, a dribble of irritation is threatening to spill over.  We talk as two strangers do, with idle conversation about this and that. How her eleven year old granddaughter knows what she wants already, how mine sets me straight. Most of the jokes I crack, she ignores while reading the images that are displayed before her. Images I see over her shoulder, revealing tangled webs of tissue that mean nothing to me. Four images later I’m excused into the confines of a mint painted waiting room until the all-knowing radiologist has a turn to interpret the pictures. Hey, my boobs actually look good on the screen.

It’s the words you dread to hear that bring you back to reality: “Mrs. So and So, the radiologist needs more images. We see a mass.” Those words rush at you with fierce intensity making the list of your routine schedule for the day die in your parched throat. The walk back to the imaging room is longer than I remember. It’s hallways threatening to swallow me. Though I’m reassured this is routine I’m reminded of the last time I was delivered the news that they had found a solid mass in my left breast, toppled my world. A few weeks of turmoil and revisiting your will until the date of your biopsy are hard to forget. I remind her that I had a biopsy with a similar mass, but she ignores me pushing my left breast into the chambers, this time aggressively. She means business.

Twelve images later, I wait. I wait again with the mint walls looking more like muddied waters. This time a stranger from the ultrasound department guides me for another survey of the “mass”. She marches in front of me a sense of purpose guiding her for the next few minutes where she glides the surface of a wand across my breast. Every inquiry I make is met with a stern: “I cannot tell you this. I cannot answer that. I cannot confirm or deny any of this.” So I shut up. I shut up because the God of all God’s is hidden somewhere in a room reading my life out. And until he deems my analysis worthy of his presence, I will have to wait as panic threatens to rob my mind. The general exits, bringing in with her the God. He is tall assured and handsome. His concern is etched in his tight lips and although I remind them that I have had a similar mass prior that was benign he is adamant that I seek a biopsy.

Since I have already paid for my COBRA insurance-which is as intimidating as the acronym, I figure better be safe than sorry. But as my questions and concerns probe into my history, he excuses himself to review the data. Dressed and ready to ensue a battle for my breasts, he approaches me again, this time sheepishly.

“Mrs. So and So” it looks like you were right. The mass appears to be the same one a few years back that was benign. I didn’t look at your history prior to this examination.”

I am grateful for many things. This mistake of his being among the top ten. And it was nice watching this God apologize for his mistake. A sigh of relief escapes, deflating my body. For a moment I had revisited the will- this time a biopsy with no partner at my side, the visions of losing my hair from the chemotherapy I would inevitably undergo and the loss of so much more. The news is subtly reassuring and I even attempt to flirt with this handsome God.

 A new day with another possibility for the future of the unknown. I am left with this: yesterday is the loss of a time that cannot be captured but will always haunt; tomorrow is the day of the unknown. For now, I’ll live for today.