CIRCLES OF HELL

In a crisis-type situation, I'm not that courageous.  Mostly I fall apart.  For awhile anyway, then I can buck up and get relatively brave and do what has to be done with some resolve.

So when, after an entire adult lifetime of normal mammograms, I got called back for "further imaging due to changes since last mammogram" I did not take it in stride.  Nope.  Not at all.  I have a couple of teeny tiny risk factors and I always hold my breath just a smidge about it anyway.

I had a long few days of of bouncing from "Awww….I'm sure it's nothing" to vivid scenes of surgery, chemo, hair loss, and death bed farewells.  And lots of heart-racing, sweaty-palm anxiety, and crying; yes, lots of crying.  I hid out in my house for 24 hours, not even getting dressed.  I do not believe I have ever not gotten dressed; lazing 'round in PJ's and robe is just not my thing.  That's when I knew I was seriously freaked.

I do wish I wasn't like that.  I see it as a weakness of character.  I so admire those who can, you know, just soldier on, or barely give something like this another thought; actually believing the idea that "it's probably nothing."  But not me.   I go from zero to worst case scenario in far less than sixty seconds.  Six is more like it.

So, today I got nicely dressed, did my hair, put on a bit of make up (because damn it! fear can be pretty!)  and made my way to the Comprehensive Breast Center for another round of tests, possibly to include:  more imaging (tit in a wringer time again), ultrasound, and MRI.  In that order.

The first thing I saw upon entering the waiting room was a giant inflatable pink ribbon hanging from the ceiling like it got lost from the Macy's Day Parade.  I wanted to pop it.  The waiting room was jammed and I tried not to look at the other women.   I didn't want to wonder, to see, to connect about this thing.  I AM NOT ONE OF YOU!

I got checked in and sat down.  Long wait. So I started to look up from my nervous "reading" of the newspaper (without really concentrating on one word) and look around.  A few women were reading and looking quite calm.  One sat next to her husband and he occasionally helped her take a few sips of something from a cup with a straw.  Another sat near the door, weeping a bit.  Another sat next to me, legs crossed, foot swinging in the air, gulping deep breaths.  She, too, occasionally wiped a tear.

I don't believe I was wrong in my assessment that the energy in the room was fairly intense with terror.  I wiped some tears too.  But bravery was also on display.  The silent journey each woman was walking may have been telescoped to the close observer, but the casual passerby only saw a roomful of women, each patiently waiting for her name to be called.

Mine finally was.  I went back to another waiting room, after disrobing from the waist up and being handed a flimsy (but flowery feminine) little short-sleeved gown to wear, "open to the front, please".  The room was freezing and I noticed all of us from the first waiting room were now in the second circle of hell together and all hunched up against the chill.  Then I saw a sign that said "Gowns for Your Use" with an arrow pointing to a rack of still flimsy, but long-sleeved gowns.  I stood up to retrieve one, setting off a line up of other women grabbing them as well.  I said it wasn't as plush as I'd like, breaking the silent tension, I guess.  We laughed.  We joked about being half-naked in an ice box.  We agreed we'd rather be at the spa.  We were bonding, smiling at each other, holding our respective copies of Women's Day and Oprah and Living magazines on our laps, again waiting for our names to be called.

When it was my turn,  I was ushered into the mammography room for more imaging.  Five more 'pictures' of my errant left breast.  The technician mentioned she wouldn't be surprised if I also would get a sonogram while I was there.  I did not take this as encouraging news.  Then I was led to yet another waiting room.  I saw there, again, the woman from the first waiting room, the one who I'd first noticed crying.  She and I smiled at each other and wondered aloud how many waiting rooms we'd share that day.

In a jiffy my name was called again.  No sooner was I in the hallway than the technician said, "OK, you can go.  It's all clear this time…just some tissue folds or something that now are all flattened out.  Thanks for your patience."

WHAT?????  THANKS FOR COMING?????  The floodgates sort of opened then, shocking her, I think.  I didn't wail, but the tears of relief flowed freely.  She said she was sorry I had been scared; was sorry I had to wait to get in; sorry this is such an anxiety-producing, heart-wrenching thing.  She dropped the professional, "all in a day's work" facade and we hugged.

I love that the Comprehensive Breast Center does the work it does.  I am grateful for 21st century medical technology.  I am grateful for my healthy breasts.  And grateful for my life.

And I wonder how many Circles of Hell my sister travelers endured today... and will in the days ahead.  If I ever have to go again, I won't avoid their eyes.  Because I am one of them.  We all are.  So, I'll look right at those women waiting and try to convey, "Yeah, I'm scared too, sister.  Let's do this together."

At least, that's the view from here….©