said—she knew that there were too many tests done today. Too much money was spent, and too many nerves were being frayed, all in the name of preventive medicine.
I never should have bothered with my physical
, she thought.
I should have been like most women and said the hell with it until next year
. She twisted again on the table. The paper crinkled beneath her. God, it was freezing in here.
The door opened. “Ms. Davies?”
“Yes.”
He moved forward, a file folder clutched in his left hand. He offered his other hand to P.J. “I’m Dr. St. Germain.”
“Nice to meet you.” She realized how stupid that sounded. It wasn’t nice to meet him at all. He was tall and skinny and wore thick glasses. Even worse, he was younger than herself. And his hand was as cold as it was in this room.
“You’re a patient of Dr. Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’d like to do a quick exam, if that’s okay.”
If that’s okay? What did he think she was doing here?
“Of course.”
He set the file down on a stool, then began checking her neck. “Why did you see Dr. Reynolds?”
“Just my regular checkup.”
“Okay. Lie on your back, please.” The paper crinkled again. “Was anything bothering you?”
“No. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”
He told her to raise her arm. “First mammogram?” He started pressing in small circles on her breast.
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five. I’d have had one sooner, but I never seemed to have time.”
“Un-huh.” He turned her arm sideways.
“Look, Doctor. I don’t understand what you expect to find. Dr. Reynolds didn’t feel anything.”
He raised her other arm and pressed around that breast, then went back to the right side and started pressing under her arm. P.J. felt as though his fingers were going to poke through the other side. She focused on the ceiling, wondering why she felt so humiliated, wondering if maybe—just maybe—there was a chance she had cancer.
He pressed again; then, abruptly, he stopped.
“Okay, Ms. Davies, all done. Get dressed, and I’ll meet you in my office. The room next door.”
He was gone.
P.J. lay on her back, unmoving. She reached over and touched her breast. There was no lump. She knew there was no lump. Why couldn’t this skinny kid doctor just admit it? God, where were all the old, gentle doctors? The ones you always knew you could trust? Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes, past her temples, onto the crumpled paper table cover. Was it really possible that she had cancer? God, would they cut off her breast?
When P.J. stepped inside his office, Dr. St. Germain was making notes on a piece of paper; a file folder was opened flat on the desk. He motioned for her to sit, while he finished whatever it was he was writing. She glanced at the paper, at an odd-looking illustration. He was drawing ared circle on it. Suddenly P.J. realized what the picture was: It was two breasts. With red ink, he had pinpointed the breast lump to the right of what must be a nipple. My God, P.J. thought. That’s me. That’s my lump.
“I think it’s best if we take a look at this as soon as possible,” Dr. St. Germain said, as he reached for a large rubber stamp. He stamped it below the breast illustration. P.J. had spent so many of her early career years reading plates of type, she easily deciphered the title upside down. PATHOLOGY STATUS , it read. Beneath that were five points: Tumor Size; Nodes; ERA; PRA; Tumor Type.
“A biopsy?” Aside from Old Mac in the stripping room at Fletcher Printing, P.J. had never known anyone who’d had a biopsy. Old Mac had had lung cancer. He’d died two years ago.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I’m scheduling you for Monday. At St. Mary’s.”
“The hospital? I have to go into the hospital? And why so soon? It’s not possible for me to go so soon.…”
Dr. St. Germain set down his pen. “Ms. Davies, the procedure requires anesthesia. It doesn’t take long, but you
I never should have bothered with my physical
, she thought.
I should have been like most women and said the hell with it until next year
. She twisted again on the table. The paper crinkled beneath her. God, it was freezing in here.
The door opened. “Ms. Davies?”
“Yes.”
He moved forward, a file folder clutched in his left hand. He offered his other hand to P.J. “I’m Dr. St. Germain.”
“Nice to meet you.” She realized how stupid that sounded. It wasn’t nice to meet him at all. He was tall and skinny and wore thick glasses. Even worse, he was younger than herself. And his hand was as cold as it was in this room.
“You’re a patient of Dr. Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’d like to do a quick exam, if that’s okay.”
If that’s okay? What did he think she was doing here?
“Of course.”
He set the file down on a stool, then began checking her neck. “Why did you see Dr. Reynolds?”
“Just my regular checkup.”
“Okay. Lie on your back, please.” The paper crinkled again. “Was anything bothering you?”
“No. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”
He told her to raise her arm. “First mammogram?” He started pressing in small circles on her breast.
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five. I’d have had one sooner, but I never seemed to have time.”
“Un-huh.” He turned her arm sideways.
“Look, Doctor. I don’t understand what you expect to find. Dr. Reynolds didn’t feel anything.”
He raised her other arm and pressed around that breast, then went back to the right side and started pressing under her arm. P.J. felt as though his fingers were going to poke through the other side. She focused on the ceiling, wondering why she felt so humiliated, wondering if maybe—just maybe—there was a chance she had cancer.
He pressed again; then, abruptly, he stopped.
“Okay, Ms. Davies, all done. Get dressed, and I’ll meet you in my office. The room next door.”
He was gone.
P.J. lay on her back, unmoving. She reached over and touched her breast. There was no lump. She knew there was no lump. Why couldn’t this skinny kid doctor just admit it? God, where were all the old, gentle doctors? The ones you always knew you could trust? Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes, past her temples, onto the crumpled paper table cover. Was it really possible that she had cancer? God, would they cut off her breast?
When P.J. stepped inside his office, Dr. St. Germain was making notes on a piece of paper; a file folder was opened flat on the desk. He motioned for her to sit, while he finished whatever it was he was writing. She glanced at the paper, at an odd-looking illustration. He was drawing ared circle on it. Suddenly P.J. realized what the picture was: It was two breasts. With red ink, he had pinpointed the breast lump to the right of what must be a nipple. My God, P.J. thought. That’s me. That’s my lump.
“I think it’s best if we take a look at this as soon as possible,” Dr. St. Germain said, as he reached for a large rubber stamp. He stamped it below the breast illustration. P.J. had spent so many of her early career years reading plates of type, she easily deciphered the title upside down. PATHOLOGY STATUS , it read. Beneath that were five points: Tumor Size; Nodes; ERA; PRA; Tumor Type.
“A biopsy?” Aside from Old Mac in the stripping room at Fletcher Printing, P.J. had never known anyone who’d had a biopsy. Old Mac had had lung cancer. He’d died two years ago.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I’m scheduling you for Monday. At St. Mary’s.”
“The hospital? I have to go into the hospital? And why so soon? It’s not possible for me to go so soon.…”
Dr. St. Germain set down his pen. “Ms. Davies, the procedure requires anesthesia. It doesn’t take long, but you
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