Just the words “Cancer Center” in big letters stuck to the side of the brick building made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Why so big? They should whisper things like that, not shout them so loudly at people. We know, keep it down, we’re all trying to keep our cool. Relax. I don’t know why I go to these things alone. That’s not true, I do know. I don’t want to ask anyone to come with me, “I shan't bother nary a soul” is my moniker. It does not serve me well. But there I was and in I went, clutching my bag with my wallet, phone and book, holding my coat closed tight around me. Frightened and annoyed by the unknown and the suggestion at the possibility that things in my body have gone wrong. Reluctantly following instructions to have this and that test done.
Nothing is clearly marked, I go in the wrong office and am directed to the elevator that will lift me one floor and set me out into another office, like a slow bundled pinball. At the window I dutifully say my name and that I am supposed to have an ultrasound of both breasts. The woman types on her keyboard and asks if I have my script. “Oh, I’m am sorry, I do not.” Of course I do not. I am lucky I am there at all and on time. I didn’t know I needed my script. Don’t all the doctors know each other? She asks if she can call my Dr. to get it. I say yes, of course and I am instructed to sit down and wait. I sit. There are two other women sitting together, we look at each other and then look away. I wonder if they are sick, which one is sick and if they think I am sick. I want to say, “I am not sick. I am just checking to be sure. I forgot my script….”
The receptionist comes out of her box and informs me that my primary Dr. has not written a script for any ultrasounds. “Oh no,” I say, “It was from my OBG, I’m sorry. Can you call her?” She gives me a very tight lipped smile, sighs and turns quickly away. It is enough to make something snap in me. Just a small twig but that little twig was holding back a rush of panic, fear and grief. I don’t know these offices but I remember different Dr.s offices like this one when my mom was sick. She was the woman in the waiting room with a diagnosis, I was the young woman beside her. We were the two that sat quietly waiting, gentle with each other and cocooned in a protective haze of love and worry. I start to cry. I gather my coat and bag and walk to the bathroom, not daring to look at the women sitting side by side. Now they surely think I am very sick. I am not sick. I am not dying. I am not. You are.
I stand in the bathroom and sob. I should have brought someone, I am embarrassing myself. I hope the receptionist has to wait for me, I hope she is confused and I hope she gets diarrhea. I turn on the faucets so no-one can hear me cry. I am afraid I will upset the other two waiting. Who may actually have something to cry about. I pull out my phone and text my husband. “The receptionist is so mean. She made me cry.” “Wtf?! Who is she?? I’m going to say something.” “I don’t know, she has short black hair. Forget it.” He assures me everything is okay. Back and forth we toss words at each other from miles away, with no sound. The faucet runs and I cry. I turn off my phone then turn it back on and look at it. I open my 10 year old’s Pokemon app. He loves this game and I’ve never played it but listen to him talk about it endlessly. He asks to play it wherever we go and sometimes I give in. On this little magic screen, I can now see standing in front of me in the bathroom is a big, round purple creature. He looks pissed. He is snorting like a bull and kicking at the dirt. I throw a poke ball at him and miss. I throw a couple more. Rolling and then releasing them, aiming for his purple belly. One finally catches him up inside then shakes and trembles and he pops out again. I stand there looking at this bull creature that I cannot catch. He snorts at me, madder than before. I have no more poke balls. How strange this life is, when I am alone and get tumbled around and then right myself by entering my son’s world where I can suddenly see the angry beast in the room where before it seemed to be just me. I had felt it and now I can see it. I shut the phone down and it is black and void again and slip it into my bag. I go back outside to wait for the receptionist to tell me and my pink splotchy, red eyed face what to do next.
I do what she says stone faced and angry and then I am on my way. I go buy myself lunch at the health food store and treat myself to a green juice at the juice bar. A large. At Home Goods I walk around touching everything soft. I find a blanket that looks like furry whipped cotton balls, the color of a sunset right where the pink touches the blue. It is as soft and gentle as it can be. It doesn’t push back at all, it just sinks where I touch it. I buy it and bring it home. When I walk through the door my 10 year old’s jaw drops. “Who’s that for?” He asks. “It’s for me,” I say. “It’s a crying blanket. And you can use it any time you need to cry.” I told him about the purple beast in the bathroom at the Dr.s office and his eyes grow huge. He puts his hands out with his fingers spread wide and asks to see my phone. He says “It’s SO rare! I can’t believe you saw one!” And he does not care that I didn’t catch it or that I used up all his poke balls. He is just happy to hear about it and we look at the Pokemon app together to confirm which Pokemon it was. I am glad to be home safe and sound with no beasts in our house, and no mean receptionists. I throw my cloud blanket in the wash and resume my busy life at home that keeps me afloat and aloft with it’s breezes and gusts of love and laundry.
Nothing is clearly marked, I go in the wrong office and am directed to the elevator that will lift me one floor and set me out into another office, like a slow bundled pinball. At the window I dutifully say my name and that I am supposed to have an ultrasound of both breasts. The woman types on her keyboard and asks if I have my script. “Oh, I’m am sorry, I do not.” Of course I do not. I am lucky I am there at all and on time. I didn’t know I needed my script. Don’t all the doctors know each other? She asks if she can call my Dr. to get it. I say yes, of course and I am instructed to sit down and wait. I sit. There are two other women sitting together, we look at each other and then look away. I wonder if they are sick, which one is sick and if they think I am sick. I want to say, “I am not sick. I am just checking to be sure. I forgot my script….”
The receptionist comes out of her box and informs me that my primary Dr. has not written a script for any ultrasounds. “Oh no,” I say, “It was from my OBG, I’m sorry. Can you call her?” She gives me a very tight lipped smile, sighs and turns quickly away. It is enough to make something snap in me. Just a small twig but that little twig was holding back a rush of panic, fear and grief. I don’t know these offices but I remember different Dr.s offices like this one when my mom was sick. She was the woman in the waiting room with a diagnosis, I was the young woman beside her. We were the two that sat quietly waiting, gentle with each other and cocooned in a protective haze of love and worry. I start to cry. I gather my coat and bag and walk to the bathroom, not daring to look at the women sitting side by side. Now they surely think I am very sick. I am not sick. I am not dying. I am not. You are.
I stand in the bathroom and sob. I should have brought someone, I am embarrassing myself. I hope the receptionist has to wait for me, I hope she is confused and I hope she gets diarrhea. I turn on the faucets so no-one can hear me cry. I am afraid I will upset the other two waiting. Who may actually have something to cry about. I pull out my phone and text my husband. “The receptionist is so mean. She made me cry.” “Wtf?! Who is she?? I’m going to say something.” “I don’t know, she has short black hair. Forget it.” He assures me everything is okay. Back and forth we toss words at each other from miles away, with no sound. The faucet runs and I cry. I turn off my phone then turn it back on and look at it. I open my 10 year old’s Pokemon app. He loves this game and I’ve never played it but listen to him talk about it endlessly. He asks to play it wherever we go and sometimes I give in. On this little magic screen, I can now see standing in front of me in the bathroom is a big, round purple creature. He looks pissed. He is snorting like a bull and kicking at the dirt. I throw a poke ball at him and miss. I throw a couple more. Rolling and then releasing them, aiming for his purple belly. One finally catches him up inside then shakes and trembles and he pops out again. I stand there looking at this bull creature that I cannot catch. He snorts at me, madder than before. I have no more poke balls. How strange this life is, when I am alone and get tumbled around and then right myself by entering my son’s world where I can suddenly see the angry beast in the room where before it seemed to be just me. I had felt it and now I can see it. I shut the phone down and it is black and void again and slip it into my bag. I go back outside to wait for the receptionist to tell me and my pink splotchy, red eyed face what to do next.
I do what she says stone faced and angry and then I am on my way. I go buy myself lunch at the health food store and treat myself to a green juice at the juice bar. A large. At Home Goods I walk around touching everything soft. I find a blanket that looks like furry whipped cotton balls, the color of a sunset right where the pink touches the blue. It is as soft and gentle as it can be. It doesn’t push back at all, it just sinks where I touch it. I buy it and bring it home. When I walk through the door my 10 year old’s jaw drops. “Who’s that for?” He asks. “It’s for me,” I say. “It’s a crying blanket. And you can use it any time you need to cry.” I told him about the purple beast in the bathroom at the Dr.s office and his eyes grow huge. He puts his hands out with his fingers spread wide and asks to see my phone. He says “It’s SO rare! I can’t believe you saw one!” And he does not care that I didn’t catch it or that I used up all his poke balls. He is just happy to hear about it and we look at the Pokemon app together to confirm which Pokemon it was. I am glad to be home safe and sound with no beasts in our house, and no mean receptionists. I throw my cloud blanket in the wash and resume my busy life at home that keeps me afloat and aloft with it’s breezes and gusts of love and laundry.
You are alive and beautiful and everything good.
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