I don’t know about anyone else, but since I’m lucky enough not to have had anyone close to me impacted by breast cancer, I don’t think very much about it all year long. The “girls” seem happy, pretty bras are bought for them, David is attentive, so not much to think about.
Then I go for my yearly mammogram.
Today was THE day. 11:15 am THE time.
From the moment I wake up, all I can think about is what if I had been walking around, blithely not understanding that something bad was occurring in my breasts? What if today, a day that appeared like any other, was the day that I’d hear that I needed to go into the doctor’s office for a “discussion?” What if I had not truly been grateful enough for the good health of my breasts, only to discover that the good health was gone?
Anyone who has ever had a mammogram knows that to say that a mammogram is “Not Fun” might just be making one of the top ten understatements of all time. That’s like saying standing for 11 hours without leaning, eating or going to the bathroom like Wendy Davis had to do in Texas, was “Not Fun.”
Besides from the fact that the whole process of a mammogram is to try to make your breast as thin as filo dough (everyone presuming that it’ll bounce back)—the fear and tension in the waiting room; before the mammogram, and then after while you wait to see if you need more views or G-d forbid, something was found—is so thick, at times you just can’t breathe.
Today while I waited, a lovely woman struck up a conversation. She is a Broadway producer, and after realizing we shared a gastroenterologist, we shared book recommendations along with our phone numbers. Finally the nurse came to tell me that my girls were in fine condition, that I was free to go. Gratitude for my good health flowed through me faster than any I.V. drip. I asked about my new acquaintance who had been sitting, waiting, longer than I had. Three minutes later, the nurse returned announcing she was free to go as well. We hugged as if we had known each other ten years, rather than ten minutes. Promising to email my new friend, I skipped out of the hospital, all the while hearing the refrain: “Let’s hear it for the girls…” It was 12:30 pm and truly time for a mincha moment. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to stop again at 2:30 pm. It’s a mincha moment kind of day.