open in the front

I sit by the woman with butterflies all over her dress. 

A sign? 

I choose to see it as such.

I love butterflies.

I tell her I like her dress because kindness is the only thing that makes these appointments bearable. 

I look at the screen in my hands, make sure the information is correct and sign my name which looks like chicken scratch.

We’re called back in a group, herded like cattle

We’d all rather be somewhere else 

Including the techs 

Whose hands will be cold

There will be pinches, squeezes, and holding of breath

and straining neck muscles and instructions to hold still

She will ask if I had implants, I’ll laugh and say, “Does it look like it?”  

They fed my children 

They provided comfort 

They are many things but perky they are not.

An old, bleached print of Monet’s Water Lillies

HGTV on the TV

Drab walls, drab chairs,

I wish there was music, flowers, sunlight, a little dog in a sweater.

Us women - strangers making eye contact, a sympathetic smile. 

Wearing short sleeve uniforms the color of ballet slippers.

Open in the front 

I don’t bother tying the cumbersome strings.

It’s cold out this morning and I’m thankful to be in jeans with furry clogs on my feet.

We wait for our names to be called. Again.

We wait for our fate.

A cell phone rings in the meantime.

Someone else talks loudly asking if her medication is ready.

I read the same sentence in my book three times 

I let out long exhales through my mouth 

and smile thinking of the little girl in the coffee shop this morning with the words “The universe has your back” on her sweatshirt.

Another sign, I hope.

Vulnerable

and hopeful

terrified

and empathetic. 

“Bomstein”, she calls, clipboard in hand.

My turn.

This time I go solo.

She asks

who again…

Your mom? Your grandmother? Anyone else?

Genetic testing? 

The overhead lights provide no warmth, no glow 

No deodorant or lotion either 

Nothing pretty to disguise the smell of anticipation, of worry 

Wait again.

A woman who wants to chat sits near me.

31 years older, she’s had cancer before.

She felt something and she’s scared now.

She cries. I cry with her.

Called back again.

This time, another room

This time, I lay down.

I try to be friendly, funny, appreciative. Usually.

But not today.

I’ve been here for hours. I want to go home. 

2 lights in the ceiling peer down at me like the eyes of an animal in the dark.

It doesn’t hurt until she presses down harder with the wand.

Tears roll down my face.

She ignores them.

I think of my mom. My grandmother. My cousins.

Friends who have endured worse.

Why are we alone during times like these?

My eyes burn. 

Wait here, I’m told again.

Again. Wait. By yourself. Relax.

As if that’s an option. 

The tech comes back. I get dressed and can go home.

I walk toward the exit and pat the arm of my new friend. I tell her good luck. 

I hope she’s okay. 

I see her husband on the way out

He was making her laugh in the waiting room before she went in

I tell him, “Your wife is lovely.”

He says smiling back at me, “Yes she is.”

I step back out into the sunshine.