I went to the breast-examination-factory (that's what it feels like) and filled out forms and went and paid and sat and waited and and got called back and changed into my pink mini-scrub shirt and stashed my stuff in the lovely purple bag with the factory's name on it (which is mine to keep!) and sat and waited and got called into a room where I stood and the sweet, sweet woman handled my breasts like they do which is like chunks of meat, although extremely politely and respectfully. "Don't try to help me," she said soothingly. "Just let me do it," and I did and I held my breath and held still with my breasts smashed between the plates and she took exactly four pictures which is the minimum needed, I do believe, and she kept saying, "This is the one that usually causes a little more pain," and I said, "It's fine. I'm fine. It's my anxiety that's making me freak out," although I don't think I was freaking out obviously or anything. I wasn't crying or shaking. Just inside, trembling you know.
So after every picture she would study it and then go for the next smashing and when I told her how much I hate call backs, she explained how they do that and then she said, "Don't worry. Just don't worry. I'm not a doctor but...try not to worry. Really."
I thought as she looked straight into my eyes that she was giving me coded words that meant that SHE didn't see anything worrisome.
God. I hope so.
And then I hugged her SO hard. Hell- why not? She'd just had her hands all over my titties. She didn't seem to mind the hug at all.
Sometimes I just need hugs and that is all there is to it. And I do not hold back.
And then the rest of the day was fine and I got all sorts of errands run and went to Fanny's with my boy and we had a wonderful lunch and got to talk a lot and then I ran some more errands and came home and there's a new Vanity Fair magazine to read, fat and slick with movie stars and perfume samples and the laundry is running and Mr. Moon will be home shortly and I just gathered eggs (two- one blue, one green) and picked some arugula and I should be feeling so relieved, so much more at peace but if you think that, you do not know how anxiety works and I am glad for you and pray you never do.
No, anxiety works like this- your mind gets relieved on one count of illogical terror and then it just goes on to another, and so I'm thinking there's something wrong with my tooth-extraction place and oh- wait!- haven't gotten the results from my bloodwork! and there's always the possibility of a call-back on the mammogram because as lovely and nice as that lady was, SHE IS NOT A DOCTOR, and that's how anxiety works, ramping itself up over nothing, over whatever tiny freckle it can find to send you spiraling into terror.
That's anxiety. Which is the real true disease, the DIS-ease, the unease, the uneasy-ness that ratchets and wracks and whispers like the constant scratch of the toenails of rats in your brain as you try to just be, just breathe, just do the fucking laundry, make the damn dinner, be-here-now-not-inside-the-crazy and oh trust me- it's been so much worse than this and for that I am grateful.
So. That's how it went. And that is how it goes.
And you know what? I may wake up tomorrow and feel absolutely fine. I do have those days and honey? Talk about grateful.
So I'm going to concentrate on that possibility and try to be all mindful and shit and let tomorrow bring what it brings and if you were here, I would hug the hell out of you.