It's the one year anniversary of having a tumor removed from my left boob, so I had my second semi-annual feel-up the other day to make sure nothing was amiss with my rebellious jubblies. In an emotional state of nervousness and with the Cult screaming "War Pony Destroyer" in my ear I missed an exit I very much knew I needed, so I relied on Waze to take me on a new route. There must have been a lot of road construction because it proceeded to take me on an epic and winding journey through all parts of town I never would have considered to necessarily be en route. If it isn't uncomfortable enough for you to be going to a "let's look for tumors" appointment by yourself, have a consequential brainfart like that to be sure you arrive in a packed waiting room in a state of emotional collapse.
Coming down from the jitters of driving with a deadline and everybody coasting by at ten miles under a low speed limit, I did what everybody does for the first five minutes of a waiting room visit and stared at everyone in turn. Excluding the workers, whose youngest was probably 40, I was easily the youngest person in the crowded waiting room of at least 40 patients and husbands by 25 years. And maybe two other women were there alone.
It's an interesting environment at a breast cancer center waiting room. It was mostly populated by older women, so it smelled nice and was very quiet. Most of them were accompanied by their husbands, who ranged from bored to panicked-looking to oh my god why won't the old man with a naked lady straddling a motorcycle on his tshirt stop staring at me I'm here to have my boobs felt up for medical reasons is that not bad or humanizing enough for you?! A lot of people were looking back at me, and I wondered if they were doing what I was doing, which was wondering why each person was there. As a 25 year old who looks 19 in a bright yellow coat, I dare say I stood out in the crowd of beige-wearing Baby Boomers.
While I knew and know that my reasons for being there were comparatively benign to many others in that room, it felt very humbling to be there alone when so few people were. One woman had two girlfriends there for her, and they were giggling and making scenes. Most women had husbands with them, though most looked bored and were clearly missing out on some at-home retired man stuff. Last time I went, an old friend I don't see often enough called off all her prior engagements to come with me. This time, the friend I invited had an understandable conflict with her daughter's schedule. So there I was, feeling kind of bad for myself for being there... ahead of my time, and alone.
But I also wasn't there to hear any devastating news. I wore a blue and white paper cape and did some Pilates poses while an older man felt my boobs in a stale, medical way. I sent a selfie to my sister while I hung out on the exam table waiting on the ultrasound machine because I was looking so fly in my paper cape. Even though I was there alone, I was texting and emailing tons of friends, and a few were responding. I was still being engaged more than some of the women who had brought their men.
Life is kind of like this. We are kind of alone, but we are also kind of not.
When I left, a younger couple, perhaps in their early 30s, were in the waiting room. We looked at each other, disproportionately young people entering and leaving a cancer center. She was wearing pink hunting camo, his was traditional. She sat in a chair and he stood behind her, stooped forward to wrap his arms around her shoulders and rest his face in her hair. And while she had that weird cocky half-smile that sometimes comes with wanting to hide your fear, I had to think it felt nice to not be there alone.
I drove home, had dinner and some beers with my mom, and enjoyed some tv and chocolate. And I was fine.
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