At the Breast Clinic
The Breast Clinic is a brick and glass structure designed with women
in mind, from fancy murals of Italy to free herbal teas in the lobby.
As you pass through the revolving doors there’s no need to wonder
which way to turn or where to ask for directions to your doctor’s suite.
The receptionist’s desk juts out and your questions about doctors,
appointments, procedures and payments can be answered quickly.
“Will my wife, Marilyn, get a clean bill of health?” takes longer.
When we travel together I sometime pretend that I am “Charles,” her chauffer,
since she comes from a long line of glitz, glamour and royalty. I don’t mind
being her driver and court jester, but we will be at the medical institute waiting
up to three hours for x-rays to hear good news. I didn’t sleep well last night
worrying about the Queen of my life for 41 years. There were omens in the air.
She has been called back before after a routine screening, but this is different.
The receptionist insisted on a speedy return and told her that a doctor
would be present in the office. The receptionist didn’t reduce fears saying,
“Oh, we just want to take a few more pictures. We do this all the time.”
With words unspoken Marilyn let me know that these were sinister omens.
She needed me to hold her hand and scare away any menacing thoughts.
That’s why I was with her with a room full of women waiting for exams.
I kept thinking: It has to be very good news. It has to be very good news.
It had to be good news because she had a run of bad luck, a series of medical
problems all piling up—a fall, broken bones, arm, ribs, a sleep disorder, TMJ,
COPD, heart problems, arthritis, and two knee operations—all in one year.
I knew she couldn’t take much more of new doctors, medicines, blood tests,
and appointments. Marilyn was centimeters away from breaking.
I prayed for her and bargained with God to spare her this time from pain,
medical intervention and frequent thoughts about her own mortality.
She deserves better. That’s what I thought again and again, as I waited
for the verdict via x-rays and a doctor. It didn’t seem fair that she had
to deal with more doctors and examinations. Yes, I know that life isn’t
fair and when things get tough, the tough get going, but there’s a limit.
Ninety minutes later she popped out from behind door number one
with a sparkling smile and waving thumbs up. I hugged and hugged
my queen, while others waited to see how their story would unfold.
I wished them well in my heart of hearts, and escorted my fair lady
out the door as fast as I could beyond false omens. At the Princess Diner
my beloved Queen and I ate a celebratory lunch and thanked the heavens.
~Joe Sottile
The Breast Clinic is a brick and glass structure designed with women
in mind, from fancy murals of Italy to free herbal teas in the lobby.
As you pass through the revolving doors there’s no need to wonder
which way to turn or where to ask for directions to your doctor’s suite.
The receptionist’s desk juts out and your questions about doctors,
appointments, procedures and payments can be answered quickly.
“Will my wife, Marilyn, get a clean bill of health?” takes longer.
When we travel together I sometime pretend that I am “Charles,” her chauffer,
since she comes from a long line of glitz, glamour and royalty. I don’t mind
being her driver and court jester, but we will be at the medical institute waiting
up to three hours for x-rays to hear good news. I didn’t sleep well last night
worrying about the Queen of my life for 41 years. There were omens in the air.
She has been called back before after a routine screening, but this is different.
The receptionist insisted on a speedy return and told her that a doctor
would be present in the office. The receptionist didn’t reduce fears saying,
“Oh, we just want to take a few more pictures. We do this all the time.”
With words unspoken Marilyn let me know that these were sinister omens.
She needed me to hold her hand and scare away any menacing thoughts.
That’s why I was with her with a room full of women waiting for exams.
I kept thinking: It has to be very good news. It has to be very good news.
It had to be good news because she had a run of bad luck, a series of medical
problems all piling up—a fall, broken bones, arm, ribs, a sleep disorder, TMJ,
COPD, heart problems, arthritis, and two knee operations—all in one year.
I knew she couldn’t take much more of new doctors, medicines, blood tests,
and appointments. Marilyn was centimeters away from breaking.
I prayed for her and bargained with God to spare her this time from pain,
medical intervention and frequent thoughts about her own mortality.
She deserves better. That’s what I thought again and again, as I waited
for the verdict via x-rays and a doctor. It didn’t seem fair that she had
to deal with more doctors and examinations. Yes, I know that life isn’t
fair and when things get tough, the tough get going, but there’s a limit.
Ninety minutes later she popped out from behind door number one
with a sparkling smile and waving thumbs up. I hugged and hugged
my queen, while others waited to see how their story would unfold.
I wished them well in my heart of hearts, and escorted my fair lady
out the door as fast as I could beyond false omens. At the Princess Diner
my beloved Queen and I ate a celebratory lunch and thanked the heavens.
~Joe Sottile
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