Hidden questions, hidden rooms
My feet are cold.
Nothing about this place or situation is comfortable. So it's funny to me that cold feet are the strongest sensation I can register. Nevertheless, it's really bugging me.
I shift positions on the exam table, and my right shoulder rips the paper gown on one side.
Shit.
I lay back for a moment and bask in the silence of of my cell, or, as it is officially known, Examination Room 2. The lavender walls are supposed to be soothing, I'm sure. But they feel like they're pressing in. The ceiling might as well be a coffin lid.
Its sickly grey-purple does nothing for me. It does not conjure visions of liliacs; but rather, my mother's cold cheek as she lay in her casket.
I wonder what my funeral will be like.
This thought evokes goosebumps. Then ...
Does it feel this cold when you die?
I shift again, uncomfortably, and my shoulder tears clean through its paper covering. I look down at my breasts through the rip. They are double-Ds. Rounded domes, with nicely shaped nipples. Out of all my features, they have been the only thing I have consistently liked about my body over the years.
And now, they may have betrayed me. They may harbor an invader. A dangerous one.
Will men like me after surgery?
I look down once more and envision my chest without them. In my mind's eye, I can see the elongated, puckered scar tissue where the rounded swells of flesh used to be. I've always said I would get a radical masectomy if I found out I had cancer.
But now that I'm facing the possibility, this option doesn't seem as clear-cut.
I feel like less of a feminist -- nay, less of a woman -- for caring about the aesthetic value of a few pounds of adipose tissue. But I realize I do, all the same.
I chastise myself for a moment, especially when I am reminded that for some, discarding the damn things altogether has helped them survive.
* * *
The human soul survives, above all.
Oddly enough, lying here, I am reminded of a dream I had a few months back.
In it, I was given a new house, a mansion, that I would be moving into in the future.
There were rooms for my sister, and rooms for me. I was excited when I found my future bedroom ... yet slightly surprised because it was a half-level below ground. I ventured down the staircase and took it in: a delightfully eclectic little den of books and antique furniture. There were shelves waiting to be filled. I ran my hands along them eagerly, imagining all the books I could eventually place there.
In the back of the room, there was a door. Ever the explorer, I opened it. There was an empty room behind mine. I was thrilled. In this one, there was no furniture. Just pale walls and endless possibilities for future decor/habitation.
At its back, there was another door. I journeyed to the back and opened it.
Another empty room.
I soon realized, to my great excitement, that I was in an underground labyrynth of empty rooms. How wonderful! This would be such an incredible place to move into, in the future. Instead of one bedroom, I now had an entire dwelling-place of secret crannies and private spaces.
I ran from room to room, until finally, I reached a back door. Through the window, I could see a staircase leading up to ground level.
I wondered what lay to the back of my new home. Would it be a beach? Or a beautiful mountain vista? I couldn't wait to catch a glimpse of the view. I opened the exit, ventured up the steps, and emerged into daylight.
And as I did, I saw grass. And... a tombstone. Then another. And another.
I drew in my breath. I was standing in the middle of a graveyard.
Why are you so afraid?
The voice -- gentle, but eminating from some unseen speaker -- took me by surprise. Nevertheless, I tried to answer it. "This is a graveyard," I sputtered, stomach tightening. "I'm standing in a place of the dead."
Yes. But who lives more fully, the 'living,' or the 'dead'?
I paused to consider the implications of this question. I thought about my mother, hovering unseen in the afterlife. I thought about all the Judeochristian concepts I'd absorbed as a youth: Heaven, hell, purgatory, salvation, resurrection. I thought about all the unknown worlds that my mortal eyes could not yet see, and the countless souls that dwelt within them.
"The dead," I finally answered, as new understanding dawned.
Yes.
The voice's tone changed slightly, and I realized the speaker was smiling as he/she spoke -- like a teacher, happy that his pupil had finally arrived at the lesson's point.
* * *
There are no dreams in doctors' offices.
Only cold exam tables and stirrups. PDRs and patient charts. Acne-faced young nurses, smiling blankly as you are weighed, measured, cuffed, prodded.
Dehumanized.
But during my brief wait alone, while my physician was tied up seeing another patient, I suddenly felt all the more human.
Weak. Vulnerable. Fragile. And ultimately, perishable.
As the minutes ticked on, I thought about the parts of us that die. And then I thought about the parts that don't. And I realized that either way, I'm going to be OK.
* * *
I am getting a mammogram next week.
My doctor says I probably don't have cancer. But I won't be out of the woods entirely until we get bloodwork and a diagnostic image to confirm what her fingertips felt.
In the meantime, I feel a strange sense of safety that I didn't have before. I find myself thinking again about houses with hidden rooms.
And doorways I have yet to open.
Nothing about this place or situation is comfortable. So it's funny to me that cold feet are the strongest sensation I can register. Nevertheless, it's really bugging me.
I shift positions on the exam table, and my right shoulder rips the paper gown on one side.
Shit.
I lay back for a moment and bask in the silence of of my cell, or, as it is officially known, Examination Room 2. The lavender walls are supposed to be soothing, I'm sure. But they feel like they're pressing in. The ceiling might as well be a coffin lid.
Its sickly grey-purple does nothing for me. It does not conjure visions of liliacs; but rather, my mother's cold cheek as she lay in her casket.
I wonder what my funeral will be like.
This thought evokes goosebumps. Then ...
Does it feel this cold when you die?
I shift again, uncomfortably, and my shoulder tears clean through its paper covering. I look down at my breasts through the rip. They are double-Ds. Rounded domes, with nicely shaped nipples. Out of all my features, they have been the only thing I have consistently liked about my body over the years.
And now, they may have betrayed me. They may harbor an invader. A dangerous one.
Will men like me after surgery?
I look down once more and envision my chest without them. In my mind's eye, I can see the elongated, puckered scar tissue where the rounded swells of flesh used to be. I've always said I would get a radical masectomy if I found out I had cancer.
But now that I'm facing the possibility, this option doesn't seem as clear-cut.
I feel like less of a feminist -- nay, less of a woman -- for caring about the aesthetic value of a few pounds of adipose tissue. But I realize I do, all the same.
I chastise myself for a moment, especially when I am reminded that for some, discarding the damn things altogether has helped them survive.
* * *
The human soul survives, above all.
Oddly enough, lying here, I am reminded of a dream I had a few months back.
In it, I was given a new house, a mansion, that I would be moving into in the future.
There were rooms for my sister, and rooms for me. I was excited when I found my future bedroom ... yet slightly surprised because it was a half-level below ground. I ventured down the staircase and took it in: a delightfully eclectic little den of books and antique furniture. There were shelves waiting to be filled. I ran my hands along them eagerly, imagining all the books I could eventually place there.
In the back of the room, there was a door. Ever the explorer, I opened it. There was an empty room behind mine. I was thrilled. In this one, there was no furniture. Just pale walls and endless possibilities for future decor/habitation.
At its back, there was another door. I journeyed to the back and opened it.
Another empty room.
I soon realized, to my great excitement, that I was in an underground labyrynth of empty rooms. How wonderful! This would be such an incredible place to move into, in the future. Instead of one bedroom, I now had an entire dwelling-place of secret crannies and private spaces.
I ran from room to room, until finally, I reached a back door. Through the window, I could see a staircase leading up to ground level.
I wondered what lay to the back of my new home. Would it be a beach? Or a beautiful mountain vista? I couldn't wait to catch a glimpse of the view. I opened the exit, ventured up the steps, and emerged into daylight.
And as I did, I saw grass. And... a tombstone. Then another. And another.
I drew in my breath. I was standing in the middle of a graveyard.
Why are you so afraid?
The voice -- gentle, but eminating from some unseen speaker -- took me by surprise. Nevertheless, I tried to answer it. "This is a graveyard," I sputtered, stomach tightening. "I'm standing in a place of the dead."
Yes. But who lives more fully, the 'living,' or the 'dead'?
I paused to consider the implications of this question. I thought about my mother, hovering unseen in the afterlife. I thought about all the Judeochristian concepts I'd absorbed as a youth: Heaven, hell, purgatory, salvation, resurrection. I thought about all the unknown worlds that my mortal eyes could not yet see, and the countless souls that dwelt within them.
"The dead," I finally answered, as new understanding dawned.
Yes.
The voice's tone changed slightly, and I realized the speaker was smiling as he/she spoke -- like a teacher, happy that his pupil had finally arrived at the lesson's point.
* * *
There are no dreams in doctors' offices.
Only cold exam tables and stirrups. PDRs and patient charts. Acne-faced young nurses, smiling blankly as you are weighed, measured, cuffed, prodded.
Dehumanized.
But during my brief wait alone, while my physician was tied up seeing another patient, I suddenly felt all the more human.
Weak. Vulnerable. Fragile. And ultimately, perishable.
As the minutes ticked on, I thought about the parts of us that die. And then I thought about the parts that don't. And I realized that either way, I'm going to be OK.
* * *
I am getting a mammogram next week.
My doctor says I probably don't have cancer. But I won't be out of the woods entirely until we get bloodwork and a diagnostic image to confirm what her fingertips felt.
In the meantime, I feel a strange sense of safety that I didn't have before. I find myself thinking again about houses with hidden rooms.
And doorways I have yet to open.