Waiting Room
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A rhinestone claw clip grasped precariously at a dyed-Barbie-blonde cascade of hair; her glasses-chain, eyelids, and fingernails were pearlescent, catching the light along with the sequins on her sweatshirt. It was 8:10am, and she was projecting from the diaphragm.
“You’ve got your purple on!” she screamed as someone new came to join us in the waiting area. The recipient looked confused but not entirely displeased. “I love it on you!” A minute or two later, she looked up from her intake paperwork, turning to address the rather severe-looking woman to her right. “Oh my gosh,” she faux-whispered at full volume, “You know, I chopped garlic last night and I can still smell it on my fingers.” Eyebrows raised, she shrugged an excited little shrug, insinuating that these things just happen, but aren’t they kind of fun?, and the severe-looking woman smiled tightly without making eye contact. It was exactly what I would have done.
“Uhh-ohh,” she pealed, “I have to use the ladies room. If they call me…” I performed intense concentration on my book as she looked around for a taker. No one bit, but we all remained involved as she narrated her journey to the bathroom, calling out to reception on the way there that she’d be right back, she wouldn’t leave, no no no, and she was almost done with that clipboard, okay? As her voice trailed off, I made a mental list of Things I Would Have Done to avoid her having asked me directly to serve as her representative; I was considering the consequences of kicking someone’s grandmother in the shin when the nurse called my name.
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Unlike the waiting room, the ultrasound suite was completely silent, save for the rote beeping and camera clicks of the machine. I’d spent the previous few days planning various futures around this morning’s outcome, and being told I had the same cancer my Mother had—twice—was something I’d spent more than a little time rehearsing. I didn’t even allow myself to be hopeful, which in hindsight probably fell closer to “deranged act of stoicism” than was healthy. When the specialist finally came in to tell me the mass they’d seen in my mammogram was just a previously undetected lymph node, I was flooded with such strong relief that I wept in the car on the way home.
With that relief came the usual sorts of avowals one makes after a cancer scare, but a sense of resignation crept in as well: Sure, I could try to do better, be better, but at this point in my life I am, and likely always will be, the type of person to harbor ungenerous thoughts towards a fellow traveler in the Women’s Breast Care Center waiting room. Whether it is progress or something far more depressing that I’ve moved on from trying to make amends for these kinds of things is up for debate, but in lieu of continuing to find new and exciting ways to disappoint myself, it just seems easier to accept that I am sometimes overwhelmed by curiosity, empathy, and compassion for the vast interiority of others—and also I have an innate psychological ability to dislike almost anyone, at any time, for reasons that would never hold up in a court of law.
I spent the remainder of the drive parsing the experience. The day’s overwhelming feeling of reprieve allowed that her enthusiasm was unwavering if not in some ways admirable; there was, perhaps, beauty in how she sparkled and shined against the otherwise fraught backdrop. And in rendering her more palatable I found, within myself, something softer and more generous as well: I may not have regretted my avoidance of interaction, but I could take solace in knowing that I would never actually kick someone’s grandmother. It had become clear to me, after a certain amount of introspection, that a firm pinch would have more than sufficed.
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