looked like a very busy office. A dozen women were sitting in the waiting room, and several technicians appeared frequently in the doorway to call their names and keep them moving. Alex gave her name to the receptionist, and hoped it wouldn't take too long, as two more women arrived. They seemed to be doing a booming business, and she noticed that with the exception of only one fairly young girl, most of the women were her age or older.
She glanced absently at a magazine, looked at her watch several times, and ten minutes after she'd arrived, a woman in a white coat came to the doorway of the waiting room and called her name. There was something very loud and impersonal about the way she said it, but Alex followed her without a word. There was something strangely invasive about having people search you for disease, as though you were carrying a concealed weapon. There was an implication of guilt just by being here, and as Alex unbuttoned her blouse she realized that she felt both angry and frightened. It was terrifying. What if there was something there? What if they found something? But as her mind started to play tricks on her and convince her she was doomed, she forced herself to realize that this was just routine. It was no more ominous than her Pap smear. The only difference was that it was being performed by strangers instead of by people she knew, but other than that, there was no difference.
The woman in the white coat stood by while she undressed, and she offered her a gown, and told her to leave it open down the front, but other than that, there was no conversation. She pointed to a sink and some towels and told Alex to wipe off any deodorant or perfume, and then pointed to a machine standing in a corner. It looked like a large X-ray machine, and had a plastic tray and some shields somewhere in the middle. Having washed while the other woman watched, Alex walked to the machine, anxious to get it over with, and the technician rested Alex's breast on the plastic tray, and then proceeded to slowly lower the upper part of the machine down on her breast and squeeze it. The technician tightened the machine as much as possible, draped Alex's arm awkwardly, told her to hold her breath, and then took two pictures, and repeated the same procedure on the other side, and told her it was over. It was actually very simple and it was more uncomfortable than truly painful. It would have been nice to know the results then and there, but Alex felt confident that they would be fine when they called her doctor on Monday.
She left the office as quickly as she had come, grabbed a cab home, and was there in time to watch Annabelle finish her lunch and dress her for ballet. And for some odd reason, it felt better than ever to be there. One couldn't totally ignore the statistics that forced women to have mammograms each year. One in eight or one in nine women would be struck with breast cancer in their lifetime, depending on the source of the statistics. Even having been near them, having been tested for it, made one shudder a little, and be grateful for the simple blessings in one's life, like taking a child to a ballet class. And Alex couldn't help but think how lucky she was, as she stooped to kiss Annabelle's bright red curls as they left for Miss Tilly's.
“Why didn't you pick me up at school?” Annabelle asked plaintively. Alex picking her up at school on Fridays was a ritual she was used to and loved, and she resented any deviation from it.
“I had to go to the doctor for a checkup, and he took longer than I thought, sweetheart. I'm sorry.”
“Are you sick?” She looked suddenly worried and protective of her mother.
“Of course not.” Alex smiled. “But everybody has to get checkups, even mommies and daddies.”
“Did he give you a shot?” She looked intrigued, and Alex laughed as she shook her head.
“No,” but they squeezed my boob flat as a pancake … “I didn't need one.”
“Good.” Annabelle looked
She glanced absently at a magazine, looked at her watch several times, and ten minutes after she'd arrived, a woman in a white coat came to the doorway of the waiting room and called her name. There was something very loud and impersonal about the way she said it, but Alex followed her without a word. There was something strangely invasive about having people search you for disease, as though you were carrying a concealed weapon. There was an implication of guilt just by being here, and as Alex unbuttoned her blouse she realized that she felt both angry and frightened. It was terrifying. What if there was something there? What if they found something? But as her mind started to play tricks on her and convince her she was doomed, she forced herself to realize that this was just routine. It was no more ominous than her Pap smear. The only difference was that it was being performed by strangers instead of by people she knew, but other than that, there was no difference.
The woman in the white coat stood by while she undressed, and she offered her a gown, and told her to leave it open down the front, but other than that, there was no conversation. She pointed to a sink and some towels and told Alex to wipe off any deodorant or perfume, and then pointed to a machine standing in a corner. It looked like a large X-ray machine, and had a plastic tray and some shields somewhere in the middle. Having washed while the other woman watched, Alex walked to the machine, anxious to get it over with, and the technician rested Alex's breast on the plastic tray, and then proceeded to slowly lower the upper part of the machine down on her breast and squeeze it. The technician tightened the machine as much as possible, draped Alex's arm awkwardly, told her to hold her breath, and then took two pictures, and repeated the same procedure on the other side, and told her it was over. It was actually very simple and it was more uncomfortable than truly painful. It would have been nice to know the results then and there, but Alex felt confident that they would be fine when they called her doctor on Monday.
She left the office as quickly as she had come, grabbed a cab home, and was there in time to watch Annabelle finish her lunch and dress her for ballet. And for some odd reason, it felt better than ever to be there. One couldn't totally ignore the statistics that forced women to have mammograms each year. One in eight or one in nine women would be struck with breast cancer in their lifetime, depending on the source of the statistics. Even having been near them, having been tested for it, made one shudder a little, and be grateful for the simple blessings in one's life, like taking a child to a ballet class. And Alex couldn't help but think how lucky she was, as she stooped to kiss Annabelle's bright red curls as they left for Miss Tilly's.
“Why didn't you pick me up at school?” Annabelle asked plaintively. Alex picking her up at school on Fridays was a ritual she was used to and loved, and she resented any deviation from it.
“I had to go to the doctor for a checkup, and he took longer than I thought, sweetheart. I'm sorry.”
“Are you sick?” She looked suddenly worried and protective of her mother.
“Of course not.” Alex smiled. “But everybody has to get checkups, even mommies and daddies.”
“Did he give you a shot?” She looked intrigued, and Alex laughed as she shook her head.
“No,” but they squeezed my boob flat as a pancake … “I didn't need one.”
“Good.” Annabelle looked
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