Day 83, Be Brave Project; Letters and Lists

Tra la la, la la la la! If I were another person, a wiser person, a person more aware of the frail fluid passage of time and less fearful of it; a person more inclined to be grateful than to be careless; a woman more involved in my future than messing around with the wreckage of my past--I would be positively THRILLED!

As it is, things aren't bad at all. . .

Friday afternoon was quite a good time. First, my faux fur toque was admired by a discerning man on the street. Love that. Secondly, when I got to my building there was a package from FedEx for me--turned out to be Style sections from the London Sunday Times, sent to me from my cousin. As I went to check my mail I thought --Right. Get upstairs, feed the little cat, then it's bubble bath/Style section time for you, Elusive D! Wonderful.

My hand pulled a few thin envelopes from the mail, and I stepped into the elevator. As the doors slid shut, I glanced at an envelope and my heart lurched. Central Park West Women's Imaging and Radiology.

Oh fuck. The eagle had landed. But maybe it was only a massive bill?? I tore the envelope open, replaying that horrible day the doctor thought she felt a lump. . .the ghastly painful mammogram and clutching my clothes to my chest like a refugee as I was sent to the bad news waiting room for the doctor. . .

We are pleased to tell you that the results of your mammogram are normal.

Hot damn!!! I burst out of the elevator like a bullet from a gun, and ran towards my apartment, where I grabbed the cat, clutched her to my chest, and did a little dance. I then went upstairs to get on the internet, as I'd been doing some bargaining with God and now had to give some money to charity. I gave to The Children's Hunger Relief Fund, because they seemed profoundly legit. And, obviously, do some good in the world.

That night I feasted on the best vegetarian chili recipe it has ever been my pleasure to encounter, I worked on my Christmas list (in my family you have to make one, as it is so much easier for other people. And because we are greedy), and I went to bed with a smile on my face.

. . .And woke up with a horrible cold. Ah well. Below is the list, just because I am the kind of person who likes to read other people's lists. And check what they're buying in the supermarket. And eavesdrops on people's phone calls when they're on the bus, unless they are shouting--in which case I get all annoyed at other people's intrusive rudeness.

Elusive D's Quite Modest Except for Some Bits 2008 Christmas List
1. Cat carrier, soft sided, made by Sherpa. For a cat in the 10 pound range. By Sherpa because that’s approved by all the airlines. This is expensive–I think around $75–but probably available cheaper on the ol’ intershmet.
***2. Queen-sized sheet sets. I like percale or sateen, and in a French blue–preferred–or sage green or some other nice color (I have a white room and a white duvet, so a little color would work.) I’ve no sheets that fit my new bed. Patterns are fine, if they’re not overwhelming!
3. Really high-quality set of coasters.
4. 2-4 small but thick pot-holders. Preferably machine washable, not ugly, & not mitten-type.
5. Book: Without Lying Down: Frances Marion and the Powerful Women of Early Hollywood. Hardcover, if possible. (By Cari Beauchamp)
6. Jeanine Basinger’s book Silent Stars. Hardcover, please!
7. Kiehl’s facial cream.
8. Microsoft "Word" word processing system. I’m hoping someone has a copy of this sitting unused in a desk somewhere! Doesn’t need to be super up-to-date; I have Windows XP. My computer came with WordPerfect, which is v. imperfect.
**9. Armband for an Ipod Nano 3rd Generation.
10. Socks–not too thick, knee high and/or shorter, in dark patterns.
11. Small, pea-sized, pearl earrings. Also, very small very simple gold hoop earrings.
12. Pocket map o’ Manhattan, in a book form. I get lost below 14th Street!
13. Some of that smoked Paprika Toby talks about. And some fancy Chili seasoning.

Day 79; Be Brave Project; Tits Out and Eyes Lowered

It's been an anxious weekend, and entirely, entirely due to the BBP. Not one moment of the holiday weekend was without a sepia soaked edge of anxiety. On Friday I went for my first mammogram--and it was not a good experience.

I arrived a bit late and flustered, having wandered around 8th Avenue thinking it was Broadway (Columbus Circle always confuses me a bit), signed into the building and took the elevator up. The West Side Breast and Heightened Anxiety Clinic--perhaps not its real name--was on the 9th floor. There was a high dark red counter behind which two nurses sat, their heads visible only from the bottom lip up. I gave my insurance card, filled out the forms, and gave them back. Then I was called back up to the desk, asked if my mammo was diagnostic or baseline. I didn't know. They said that my doctor had felt a lump, and asked where it was.

I answered, and said that that is why she wrote "sonogram if necessary" on the paper, so we could get it checked out fully. They appeared somehow dissatisfied with this answer, and I returned to my seat for thirty minutes. I was called back up and given a questionnaire. I sat back down and looked at the couple opposite; the man was Hispanic, in his fifties. He wore sweatpants and a look of discomfort. His wife looked horribly underslept--or ill. She sat very still, her eyes closed and her hands crossed on her lap. They made me anxious, and I was relieved when she was called in by the technician. More time passed.

A middle-aged fire plug of a technician came out and called my name--she reiterated the question about diagnostic or first-time mammo--I answered. She asked if I'd used talcum powder, deodorant, perfume or lotion this morning. I said, nope. I was led to a small sock-shaped room where two women were sitting, one of them the weary woman from the front room. There was no eye contact. I took my clothes off, put on the robe, and had to carry my clothes with me in a bundle back to sit in the sock-shaped room with the women. No one spoke.

More time passed, and I bundled my clothes more tightly. The woman two chairs away from me moved her handbag so I couldn't reach it. There were pictures of rock stars on the walls, and small placards talking about the photographers. Fire Plug came back in, called my name, and we went to another room with a big stand-up machine. I was pressed into it closely, closely, my feet wedged in uncomfortably beneath it, and a big plastic guard above sticking into my face. Fire Plug started turning a lever and a plate came down down to painfully press my breast. Fire Plug kept turning the lever. . .kept turning it until I thought I would scream. Then she stepped back and told me to stand still--lower eyes, don't breathe.

This went on and on, and the disconcerting thing is that she kept taking images of the same breast, the right one. 4 times, each more painful than the last. She looked silently at the images, and, while I was standing there in my disarrayed robe, clutching my damn bundle of clothing like a fucking refugee, I asked, "Is everything all right?"

Sharply she replied, "I'm not a doctor!"

Oh, fine. Not feeling good, though. She said I shouldn't put my clothes back on, but go back to the sock-shaped room and wait for a doctor. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, have I quit goddamn drinking only to get a horrible terrifying life-threatening disease?? Oh God, Oh God.

Sat back down in the sock-room, and the lady moved her handbag even further away from me. After a while Fire Plug came in and said, "Your doctor's office is closed today. So just put on your clothes and go." I looked up at her, pale in my frightened refugee status, and waited for something more. Some word of explanation as to why I had been asked to wait for a doctor, why my own doctor had been called, what was up with the continued shots of the right breast. . .

I got nothing. Except that I'd know in one week.

As I walked out, a nurse called to me, "Don't forget to fill out your questionnaire!" And believe me, I filled it out.

Then I went straight to an AA meeting, where I met a lady who had had breast cancer, and who said that my experience used to be the norm when getting mammos--but wasn't any more. That next time I should ask for a different location, and make sure that I would walk out with the results. . .she gave me her card.

The weekend contained some heroic eating, much television watching, and epic levels of worry.