I spent the better part of Good Friday morning at the Mission Breast Imaging in Asheville; it sounds like a pornography company, doesn't it? On February 28, I had what I assumed would be a routine mammogram, and a few weeks later, I was told that I needed follow up, plus they hadn't been able to get my scans from mammograms that I had done in South Florida in 2019 and 2021.
Happily, I no longer live in South Florida. My GP ordered the follow up scans that same day, and I grabbed the first appointment that worked with my schedule, even though it was Good Friday morning. It was surreal to enter the medical-industrial complex the morning after Maundy Thursday service.
Unlike South Florida, the medical facilities here are much less industrial. I realize that a certain amount of my different perception is that I'm only seeing part of it--much like an expectant couple sees the loveliest of birthing rooms when making plans. Still, there aren't as many people in the waiting rooms, the pace is efficient, and I'm not the youngest one in the waiting room by several decades here in the mountains.
I thought about how much kinder I felt in this setting. We were all there, in our wide variety of bodies. Everyone looked beautiful to me. And even though we were in this medical-industrial setting, I felt that people were more relaxed than they would be if I saw them in the grocery store. Was it the lack of men? No male gaze judging us? Maybe it was the fact that we were existing out of time—our to do lists took a back seat to this task of finding out if we have cancer.
I noticed the strategically placed boxes of tissues. I thought about how I do not have time for cancer right now. I thought about all the ways I've been unkind to my body and harsh in judging my physical self. I thought about how much I haven’t appreciated my health, especially when I’ve been focused on my weight gain or my arthritic feet or all the ways I’m not as strong and capable as I once was. I felt weepy, and I thought, well, if you can't cry in the waiting room of a mammography center, then where can you? I dabbed at my eyes, because I am always afraid that if I let myself cry in public, I won't be able to stop.
The mammogram itself was surreal, as it always is to me. I confess that I dreaded this week's dentist appointment more than the mammogram appointment. And I am happy to report that both visits sent me away with a clean bill of health. I didn't even need the follow up ultrasound that was scheduled yesterday.
The radiologist thinks that worrisome image on my February 28 scan was just bunched up tissue. Part of me wanted yet another follow up, but I reminded myself that I got 4 scans yesterday, two of which were very pinched in on a specific area. I decided that I deserved a treat, but not alcohol. Given the amount of cancer in my family, I've decided to stay as abstinent when it comes to alcohol as I can. Some days that's easier than others.
So yesterday, I rewarded myself with cake and flavored coffee and a bit of chocolate. Happily, the Fresh Market is on my way home. I thought about how often the Fresh Market has helped me celebrate. When I got notice that I had passed my PhD written Comprehensive Exams, I went to the Fresh Market in Columbia, SC and got whatever I wanted, much of which was chocolate and baked goods. My friend who went with me remembers that trip as one of the most joyous expeditions ever. I do too.
Yesterday was joy-filled too, but also a tinged with weak-limbed relief. I walked through the store, dabbing at my still-weepy eyes, saying prayers of gratitude, praying for those that wouldn't be receiving good news on Good Friday (or any other day in a cancer screening center).
I thought about the Good Friday in 2022 when I went out for a pre-dawn walk, tripped, and fell. I broke my wrist, although it would take me days to fully understand that I broke it. It would take me even longer to realize what a horrible break I had. I made this Facebook post: "Some years on Good Friday, you trip and fall and break your wrist (me in 2022, although it took me days to understand that I had broken my wrist, not just sprained it). Some years on Good Friday, you go back to have a follow up mammogram and ultrasound, and the news is good: not cancer, just bunched up tissue in the first mammogram in February (me, today, feeling grateful and guilty-ish, because so many people don't get good news)."
This morning, I started a poem with these lines, which will have the same title as this blog post:
No one mocks us here.
Here our flesh is treated with the care
it deserves. We are bound,
but tenderly, so that the mammographer can see
beyond the surface.
It will be interesting to see what develops (a bit of imaging punnery, which I couldn't resist).
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