finally worked her checkup into her schedule. She’d already canceled two earlier appointments and had been several months past her yearly date—maybe even a year. No big deal, P.J. had thought. Lots of women, she knew, didn’t bother for two or three years at a time.
“Ms. Davies?”
The doctor’s receptionist stood in the doorway. P.J. rose and followed the woman down a corridor. Everything about the woman was tall. Tall and flat. She looked like a cartoon character who’d been run over by a truck: stretched too tall, and flat from her face to her feet. The only thing missing were the tire marks.
“Have a seat in here. The doctor will be right with you.”
P.J. stepped into Dr. Reynolds’s office and sat on an uncomfortable Victorian settee. The entire office was exquisitely furnished with antiques; a sharp contrast to the sterility of the white painted walls and the silver-framed diplomas. She squirmed on the hard sofa, wondering how long this would take. An “about-to-be” ad-agency partner had no time to waste sitting in doctors’ offices.
The door opened. Dr. Reynolds walked in and sat behind the oak desk, which P.J. assumed was from some previous century. He folded his hands and looked at P.J.
“Ms. Davies. I’m glad you could come in.”
“I take it you think there’s something wrong with me, Doctor.” P.J. needed to get this over with, to get back to the office, then home to pack for the weekend.
The doctor rested his chin in his hands. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “Your mammogram shows what appears to be a lump on your right breast.”
She stared at him, knowing he was mistaken.
“… and I think we’d better check it out,” he continued.
Oh, sure, she thought. Modern technology strikes again. She peered across the desk and looked squarely into the magnified pupils behind his bifocals.
“What are you talking about? You examined me. You said there were no lumps.”
The pupils blinked. “And I believe I also told you we can’t always feel them. Please, Ms. Davies, don’t be alarmed. It could be nothing. But I’d like you to see Dr. St. Germain. He’s a surgeon.”
“A
surgeon?
”
“He will mostly likely schedule a biopsy. It’s routine, though. Nothing to worry about.”
“A
biopsy?
”
“I think my nurse has arranged for you to see him now.”
“Now?”
“His office is right down the hall.”
She stared at the doctor again, thinking that someone must have left a door open, for there was a sudden chill in the room. “Dr. Reynolds, are you trying to tell me you think I have cancer?”
The doctor smiled. “I repeat: There’s no need to alarm yourself. Eighty percent of all lumps which show up on mammograms are benign.”
She looked at her hands in her lap. “Well,” she said, “then why bother with a biopsy? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until we’re sure it’s there? Until I can at least feel something? I really don’t have time.…”
Dr. Reynolds leaned forward. “Ms. Davies, you are an intelligent woman. Surely you know one of the advancements in treating breast cancer has been that mammograms enable us to remove lumps at an early stage.”
“But you said eighty percent are benign.”
“Precisely. And twenty percent are not.”
She studied the edge of the oak desk. She didn’t know what else to say.
“My nurse will tell you how to get to Dr. St. Germain’s office.”
P.J. stood up. Her legs seemed heavier than when she’d arrived. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, and left the room.
She left the limp cotton gown open in the front, as the nurse had instructed. P.J. sat on the hard examining table, feeling the stiff paper crinkle and stick every time she shifted positions. She knew it was absurd to be here: There was no way she had cancer. No one in her family had ever had it; hadn’t she read somewhere that almost all breast cancer was hereditary? Damn the medical advancements. P.J. didn’t care what the doctor
“Ms. Davies?”
The doctor’s receptionist stood in the doorway. P.J. rose and followed the woman down a corridor. Everything about the woman was tall. Tall and flat. She looked like a cartoon character who’d been run over by a truck: stretched too tall, and flat from her face to her feet. The only thing missing were the tire marks.
“Have a seat in here. The doctor will be right with you.”
P.J. stepped into Dr. Reynolds’s office and sat on an uncomfortable Victorian settee. The entire office was exquisitely furnished with antiques; a sharp contrast to the sterility of the white painted walls and the silver-framed diplomas. She squirmed on the hard sofa, wondering how long this would take. An “about-to-be” ad-agency partner had no time to waste sitting in doctors’ offices.
The door opened. Dr. Reynolds walked in and sat behind the oak desk, which P.J. assumed was from some previous century. He folded his hands and looked at P.J.
“Ms. Davies. I’m glad you could come in.”
“I take it you think there’s something wrong with me, Doctor.” P.J. needed to get this over with, to get back to the office, then home to pack for the weekend.
The doctor rested his chin in his hands. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “Your mammogram shows what appears to be a lump on your right breast.”
She stared at him, knowing he was mistaken.
“… and I think we’d better check it out,” he continued.
Oh, sure, she thought. Modern technology strikes again. She peered across the desk and looked squarely into the magnified pupils behind his bifocals.
“What are you talking about? You examined me. You said there were no lumps.”
The pupils blinked. “And I believe I also told you we can’t always feel them. Please, Ms. Davies, don’t be alarmed. It could be nothing. But I’d like you to see Dr. St. Germain. He’s a surgeon.”
“A
surgeon?
”
“He will mostly likely schedule a biopsy. It’s routine, though. Nothing to worry about.”
“A
biopsy?
”
“I think my nurse has arranged for you to see him now.”
“Now?”
“His office is right down the hall.”
She stared at the doctor again, thinking that someone must have left a door open, for there was a sudden chill in the room. “Dr. Reynolds, are you trying to tell me you think I have cancer?”
The doctor smiled. “I repeat: There’s no need to alarm yourself. Eighty percent of all lumps which show up on mammograms are benign.”
She looked at her hands in her lap. “Well,” she said, “then why bother with a biopsy? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until we’re sure it’s there? Until I can at least feel something? I really don’t have time.…”
Dr. Reynolds leaned forward. “Ms. Davies, you are an intelligent woman. Surely you know one of the advancements in treating breast cancer has been that mammograms enable us to remove lumps at an early stage.”
“But you said eighty percent are benign.”
“Precisely. And twenty percent are not.”
She studied the edge of the oak desk. She didn’t know what else to say.
“My nurse will tell you how to get to Dr. St. Germain’s office.”
P.J. stood up. Her legs seemed heavier than when she’d arrived. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, and left the room.
She left the limp cotton gown open in the front, as the nurse had instructed. P.J. sat on the hard examining table, feeling the stiff paper crinkle and stick every time she shifted positions. She knew it was absurd to be here: There was no way she had cancer. No one in her family had ever had it; hadn’t she read somewhere that almost all breast cancer was hereditary? Damn the medical advancements. P.J. didn’t care what the doctor
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