If I make it, I make it

ANOTHER YEAR

It’s 6:30 A.M. The sky still holds the sun prisoner. A few cars, mine included, wait a minute and a half at a red light with seeing not even one car transecting the main road. I tap the steering wheel, sing along with Old Blue Eyes, while the wait grows whiskers. The lead car moves. I and four others follow. A few more early birds step on the gas to make the light with us. Four blocks later a yellow light slows me just as I start a left turn. A quick glance both ways and I go for it, complete my turn, and there he is, a cop. I hold my breath and am surprised, delighted, he drives past me without even giving me a dirty look.

As I turn into my destination, I switch off the headlights. Only one other car, parked at the entrance to the building, is on the lot. Keeping my doors locked, I wait for company before getting out. A dark blue car pulls in and a fat lady wearing flip flops gets out. She struts thru the automatic glass doors as they slide open, with me right behind her. We take the elevator to the second floor together and go in the only lit room.

Two women are behind their desks, stapling papers, not noticing our arrival. The fat lady walks boldly to the desk, taps on it and loudly says, ‘I’m Sheila Blair. I have a 7:15 appointment. Should I go back?’ The curt reply is, ‘Sit down over there. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’ Not to be outdone, I approach the other woman. ‘Excuse me. I’m Sally Bardoff and I have a 7:15 appointment too.’ ‘Sit down. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’ Nasty bitch! Before my rear touches the hard cane chair, fat Sheila and I are called to sign papers and have a wide ID tape put on our wrists. We sit down again.

In that short interval eight more women enter, short, tall, black, Haitian, a motley group. Magazines rattle. Tongues wag. By now I call the fat lady Sheila and we have a mutual friend or two. ‘Let’s go,’ I tell her. ‘Our names were just called.’ We are led to a room full of empty chairs, medical magazines and a dark t.v. with no clicker. ‘This way Ladies.’ Sheila and I are put in separate small cubicles, that have lockers, and are told to put our purses, valuables inside and take the key with us. There is a hook for our blouses and bras, plus a stack of blue flowered paper cover ups are on a chair. ‘The opening goes in the back and the tie comes all around. Put yours on and come back out, take a seat. Someone will call you soon.’ Like Siamese twins Sheila and I emerge together, our cover-ups not covering either of us adequately. I wish I had not put my sweater in the locker. Sheila reads last month’s Time Magazine and I have my writing book and pen ready to observe, write.

The room fills rapidly. There is no question, every one is nervous, anxious to get this done, get the devil out of there. After I had been called in, a third lady follows right on my heels. She looks like she won’t make it thru today’s test. Her skin is sallow, her right upper arm very swollen. Bad signs and she knows it.

‘Ms. Bardoff?’ I’m called. A young girl who could be my granddaughter tells me to put my eyeglasses on the chair and come over near her. While I don’t recall the order of the instructions I’ve obeyed many times, I simply do as told. There is no modesty, no way to hold the paper gown over myself. In a friendly, almost nonchalant tone, the sergeant says, ‘Face front. Put your hand on the pole. Move up closer. Turn your head to the left.’ I wince as my right breast is lifted , squeezed onto a cold plate. No man has ever squeezed me like this before. I’d have beat his brains out if he had. The tech moves my breast around, pushes, pulls, clamps it as flat as a walked on worm. ‘Hold your breath!’ There is a fast buzz and I and my breast come back to reality. ‘That hurt, I exclaim to the air. The reverse process begins. I have a left pancake to match my right one. I keep my mouth shut except to inhale deeply for my intern al photo.

Done. I put the blue paper cover up on and sit again in the cold waiting area. This time I wait for an okay and the wonderful words, ‘You’re clear. We’ll contact your doctor.’

Fifteen semi-nervous minutes seem like thirty but I have my writing book and much to say. One patient in, one patient out. It doesn’t stop all day from 7:15 until five, five days a week, year after year in just this one lab. The waiting room is not comfortable, too cool. ‘Bardoff?’‘Here I am.’ The tech says wait. I waited to hear. ‘You are fine. Get dressed. Take this form to the desk on your right as you go out.’ I look around and am glad Sheila is gone. As I walk out, I hear muffled cries, soft conversation, a nose blowing. A tech pulls back a green curtain, puts her arms around Patient #3 and leads her out a rear door. The patient knew before being told what the result would be.

My emotions split into black snowflakes. I’m a winner. #3 has already been named Loser. I will be making an appointment for next year and #3 will not be here when I come.

And next year the office won’t have to send me a reminder card or call me the day before to be there at 7:00. I will be there earlier, perhaps see Sheila again.
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