systems. The room is peaceful and faintly scented by flowers, almost like a spa. I close my eyes and fantasize that I am about to get naked and kneaded by a hulking Nordic type with huge hands and Arnold-esque English.
Hasta la vista, stress-induced belly fat.
“Mrs. Rose?”
The young woman in front of me has a light brown snarl of dreadlocks, and tattoos of Asian characters drip out from under her white tank top. Her arms are lean and brown and sexy, like Gina Gershon’s in that lesbian movie that lurks in every straight man’s Netflix queue.
“You haven’t eaten today, right?” she says, after introducing herself as Karen.
I shake my head. “After this, I’m heading straight to the taqueria to get a burrito.” I smile, expecting commiseration— I am, after all, a frail cancer patient who has been forced to starve through two meals—but rat-nest-head Karen just takes my personal belongings and guides me to a room that looks like a massage studio, with a sheet-draped table in the center and various bottles of oils and unguents.
“Dr. Minh will be with you in a few minutes. Please disrobe and put this on.” She hands me a waffle-weave robe.
My mood lifts slightly; it really is like a spa! I thank her and undress, enjoying the slightly flatter feel of my empty stomach even though it is somersaulting with hunger.
My cell phone bleeps. Quickly, I rifle through my purse and grab it.
Susan.
I flip open the phone. “Can I call you back later? I’m at the doctor,” I whisper to my best friend.
Sue manages to warble a line of “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You” before I snap the phone shut. A snort of laughter escapes against my will.
Karen sticks her thatch of knots through the door. “Mrs. Rose, didn’t you see the sign? We don’t allow cell phones here. You have to turn that off. The waves!” She gestures an imaginary halo with her beringed hands, apparently one of those people who believes cell phones induce brain cancer and flaxseeds must be sprinkled on everything from breakfast cereal to toothpaste.
“Sorry, sorry!” I put it back in the bag.
After a few minutes, I hear a gentle swish enter the room. I sit up halfway on the table, feeling awkward in my gown, which gapes around my big breasts and splits up to the crotch.
Dr. Minh shakes my hand.
“Hola.”
To profoundly understate it, Minh is not what I expected. I suppose I imagined a stringy Confucian, robed and wrinkled, wise almond eyes peering at me from under graying brows, Fu Manchu beard offsetting the long ponytail held with a leather thong, slim hands primed to fondle my chakras and flip through ancient volumes of Chinese medicine for the right cure.
I got the ponytail right.
Dr. Minh is about my age, clad in designer jeans and a leather vest with nothing under it save an expanse of smooth brown chest. His neck is wrapped in leather amulets and beads, and his tattoos look more S&M than M.D. Excuse me,
O.M.D. “Your sister told me you’ve just been diagnosed with breast
cancer,” he says.
“Yes.”
He picks up my hand in a loose grip and presses his fingers against my wrist. The man’s eyes, I notice, are a liquid gold, startling in the Chinese face.
Dr. Minh offers neither encouragement nor condolences. I stare at the V of sparse chest hair six inches from my nose and try to still my thoughts, which are centered on whether he can tell that I do not, in fact, have cancer and am merely overweight and neurotic.
He lets my hand drop. “I can feel the imbalance.”
Guess not.
“Do you eat meat?” he says, easing me to a supine position.
“Yes, but not very often.” I’ve been waiting for this, the part where the experts—medical, holistic, psychological—start picking apart my life, examining my eating, health, lifestyle, and exercise habits with a magnifying glass, looking for transgressions to pin the cancer on.
Dr. Minh digs both hands into the ring of flesh around my belly. Before I can squeeze
Hasta la vista, stress-induced belly fat.
“Mrs. Rose?”
The young woman in front of me has a light brown snarl of dreadlocks, and tattoos of Asian characters drip out from under her white tank top. Her arms are lean and brown and sexy, like Gina Gershon’s in that lesbian movie that lurks in every straight man’s Netflix queue.
“You haven’t eaten today, right?” she says, after introducing herself as Karen.
I shake my head. “After this, I’m heading straight to the taqueria to get a burrito.” I smile, expecting commiseration— I am, after all, a frail cancer patient who has been forced to starve through two meals—but rat-nest-head Karen just takes my personal belongings and guides me to a room that looks like a massage studio, with a sheet-draped table in the center and various bottles of oils and unguents.
“Dr. Minh will be with you in a few minutes. Please disrobe and put this on.” She hands me a waffle-weave robe.
My mood lifts slightly; it really is like a spa! I thank her and undress, enjoying the slightly flatter feel of my empty stomach even though it is somersaulting with hunger.
My cell phone bleeps. Quickly, I rifle through my purse and grab it.
Susan.
I flip open the phone. “Can I call you back later? I’m at the doctor,” I whisper to my best friend.
Sue manages to warble a line of “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You” before I snap the phone shut. A snort of laughter escapes against my will.
Karen sticks her thatch of knots through the door. “Mrs. Rose, didn’t you see the sign? We don’t allow cell phones here. You have to turn that off. The waves!” She gestures an imaginary halo with her beringed hands, apparently one of those people who believes cell phones induce brain cancer and flaxseeds must be sprinkled on everything from breakfast cereal to toothpaste.
“Sorry, sorry!” I put it back in the bag.
After a few minutes, I hear a gentle swish enter the room. I sit up halfway on the table, feeling awkward in my gown, which gapes around my big breasts and splits up to the crotch.
Dr. Minh shakes my hand.
“Hola.”
To profoundly understate it, Minh is not what I expected. I suppose I imagined a stringy Confucian, robed and wrinkled, wise almond eyes peering at me from under graying brows, Fu Manchu beard offsetting the long ponytail held with a leather thong, slim hands primed to fondle my chakras and flip through ancient volumes of Chinese medicine for the right cure.
I got the ponytail right.
Dr. Minh is about my age, clad in designer jeans and a leather vest with nothing under it save an expanse of smooth brown chest. His neck is wrapped in leather amulets and beads, and his tattoos look more S&M than M.D. Excuse me,
O.M.D. “Your sister told me you’ve just been diagnosed with breast
cancer,” he says.
“Yes.”
He picks up my hand in a loose grip and presses his fingers against my wrist. The man’s eyes, I notice, are a liquid gold, startling in the Chinese face.
Dr. Minh offers neither encouragement nor condolences. I stare at the V of sparse chest hair six inches from my nose and try to still my thoughts, which are centered on whether he can tell that I do not, in fact, have cancer and am merely overweight and neurotic.
He lets my hand drop. “I can feel the imbalance.”
Guess not.
“Do you eat meat?” he says, easing me to a supine position.
“Yes, but not very often.” I’ve been waiting for this, the part where the experts—medical, holistic, psychological—start picking apart my life, examining my eating, health, lifestyle, and exercise habits with a magnifying glass, looking for transgressions to pin the cancer on.
Dr. Minh digs both hands into the ring of flesh around my belly. Before I can squeeze
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