And so it begins with the car parking. Do I find a two-hour spot or drive around the block one more time, ending up in a 9-hour spot for $5? Recalling last year’s visit to the breast clinic, I take the second option.
The sticky, pre-Christmas humidity seeps through my cotton shirt and I wonder if my dyed turquoise timber beads will stain. As advised on my appointment reminder, I am wearing “separates”, chosen with absolute lack of enthusiasm this morning.
After last year’s visit, I didn’t want to return. It was so … so… depressing. All of us sitting there, like skittles in a bowling alley, looking at each other and waiting, wondering which one of us would be the “one in eight” statistic to be told we had breast cancer for Christmas. There had been a young woman crying in the courtyard. We had all seen her.
I find myself sitting back in that lounge with about 30 other women, all of us in the same pathetic state of undress. That is, with our “easy-open” gowns, ready to easily open, exposing our variously sized and shaped breasts. I feel a bit risqué and let mine gape wide open. I have barely anything there save a chafe mark from my running bra. Who cares? It’s not like there are any men around.
In fact, the only sight that really takes my eye is the large photo on the wall of a gorgeous, young blonde woman, snuggling her baby. Her name is Helen. This lounge is named after her. In fact, a lot of things are named after her. It’s unnerving. She is so young. She is so pretty and perfect and has such a beautiful baby. Why is her photo on the wall?