Thelma and Louise

I missed last year’s mammogram, there’s never a good reason for missing preventive maintenance. Never. Ever. 

 

I get my mammies grammed. Mashed flat, robust pancakes. The right mammie endured multiple views. Something wasn’t right, they never do this, the mammographers, take a couple extra, different shots. 

 

I don’t want to ask what’s wrong, what’s going on. Eventually, reluctantly, I ask. We are sending you for an ultrasound. Okay, not sounding too good. Today, I ask? Yes, today. I’m in the room alone, praying, calling on my faith, more than a little worried. Ultrasound ordered; I’m just waiting. 

 

Doctor comes in, tells me no need to ultrasound. Say what? An ultrasound would not be beneficial, would “muddy” things. What are you telling me? There are changes, but nothing warranting more testing. Okayyy. No ultrasound, perhaps a biopsy to make sure? (After all, you just scared me senseless, I didn’t say this out loud.) No, no biopsy, no need for additional charges. So, I ask, you are one hundred percent sure? Yes, I’m told, 100% sure. I’ll hold you to it. (And I will.) 

 

Don’t miss next year’s mammogram, they tell me. 

 

This was a nightmare, short, with a positive outcome, nonetheless, a nightmare. 

 

Y’all get your PM, guys too, get your junk checked. We can only do what we can do, the rest is a crapshoot. 

 

Thelma told Louise to get her stuff together. "Hey, I’m good, all good," Louise tells her. "Flattened multiple times, bouncing back, I’m good." 

 

I find all this odd, really odd. Unsettling. 

 

I’m thinking about so many, not as fortunate as me, to be sent home saying sorry for the confusion. I pray. 

 

How do people make it, endure, without faith?