Hello there little one.
I’m not sure if you are really there or not but it’s ok if you are here.
I’m not scared or worried.
I’m going to surround you with light.
See how nice that feels?
You may not be staying long or maybe you’ll be here a while.
Either way, I want my body to know you are welcome.
You showed up for a reason.
I’ve become wise enough to realize that I need to listen.
The light is love and hugs, radiating out and around the spot.
10 o’clock from the nipple.
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Paper sheet, flat on my back, ceiling tiles, fluorescent light, fire sprinkler.
I’m talking about how I didn’t have to transition to remote work during covid because I already worked from home.
She’s not listening (I didn’t expect her to) - she’s tuned into what her fingers are telling her.
How can you tell when someone switches their attention to one of their other senses? How can you know when someone’s attention moves from hearing to touch? A random thought, but a welcome distraction.
“When was your last mammogram?”
“May.” (it’s August)
“I feel a mass.” She takes my hand, positions my fingers where she is feeling.Almost roughly but that’s not the sense I get from her. It’s probably because I’m still trying to process what she just told me.
“That doesn’t feel normal.” I tell her. I know my lumpy breasts, familiar with the fibrous feel, a mix of dense branches and squish. This is a cluster. I don’t do clusters.
“We’ll do a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.”
“Yes.” No argument from me.
Her fingers and hands are moving my breast around, feeling. “10 o’clock from the nipple.”
“10 o’clock from the nipple.” I repeat. Burning that into my brain so I don’t forget when I go into the mammogram appointment.
She moves around the table to the other side and it hits me.
I’m giggling and nearly laughing too loud for a doctor’s office.
“10 o’clock from the nipple is the most amazing phrase I’ve ever said in my life!” I tell her.
She smiles, a brief break in her doctor vibe.