Opening the blinds on the morning of my second stage screening appointment, I catch a glimpse of the faintest rainbow in the otherwise grey, gloomy sky. Obviously, I squeeze as much of the coloured magic from it before it quickly vanishes, then pull my trusty rainbow socks onto my feet. The journey was awful as we were stuck in rush hour traffic despite it being our Easter holiday; other commuters needed to get to work. After a few detours we somehow managed to arrive exactly on time. This is very strange as we are usually always late. There were about four other older but equally miserable looking couples in the waiting room. As soon as I sat down I wanted to cry because I could see the worried looks of love on all the male faces, Romeo's included. So, instead I stared hard at the bright picture of tulips in a perfectly arranged park before me and blinked back the emotions because when I start crying, for whatever reason, it's like a torrential downpour which lasts for an age.
When my name was called I had to go into a cubicle and strip off from the waist upwards, depositing my clothes and unnecessary sports bra, in a blue, plastic shopping basket. Then, I wrapped around a well-worn, blue NHS gown and returned to the waiting room. A lovely, young mammographer explained that she was going to take some more X-rays. It was my right breast that was the cause for concern. As she carefully and gently coaxed it into the correct position with her blue gloves on, I imagined she was stretching and twisting some pizza dough. Please don't knead any remaining life out of this piece of sagging flesh, I silently prayed.
After about an hour, my name was called again and I went into a darkened room hosting two nurses and a Polish, male doctor. Disrobing on command and sitting facing him, while the women watched expressionless, was completely surreal. Rainbow socks, rainbow socks, Susie, think about those lovely rainbow socks. At least I didn't have to worry about my underwear today. As he began to juggle both breasts individually (with his BARE hands), I looked behind his head to see a giant, blown up X-ray of my right breast, looking quite perky but HUGE. Anxiety almost got the better of me but somehow I stifled manic laughter when I saw the cause for concern in the pin-up picture before me. It was, in comparison, very tiny. The next phase to undergo was the ultrasound; the only other time I have experienced this was during my pregnancies. Sprawled half naked on my back, on a hospital bed, with my right arm underneath my head and hair tied up, I could have easily been a model posing for either Monsieur Degas, Manet or Renoir in a private boudoir. Then, obviously slightly delirious, I began to have a Dali daydream about a foetus growing inside my breast and the doctor telling me he could clearly see the heartbeat, which was naturally in the form of a melting clock. Commence internal sing-a-long: Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high ........................
Meanwhile, in the waiting room a thoughtful nurse had flicked a switch on the side of the tulip picture, illuminating it into a psychedelic, hallucinogenic feature. It was trying too hard to be cheerful but somehow necessary I suppose. Maybe some Laurel and Hardy or Harold Lloyd films would be a better distraction?
Back to reality and following the ultrasound, my cause for concern now had a pretty pink sticker placed on it for the next round of intimate Pizza Xpress-rays. After a short wait, I returned to the doctor and nurses, this time for my results. It was such a relief to hear the words, 'It's nothing serious, just a lymph node which we will mark on your records.' Phew! At last, I could get fully dressed, go home and relax. Despite feeling a bit shell shocked I somehow remembered to thank the doctor and nurses for their care, rejoined Romeo and we both staggered freely together with my rainbow feet out of the hospital. My hope for now, was that all the other women would be OK too. Statistically, sadly, I knew that some would not be.
It is upon reflection days later I realise that the doctor who examined me is the only other male who has had the privilege to touch my breasts since 1990. He did not, however, manage to make an impression upon either my heart or soul; only very few good men can achieve that. What a revelation to write about and reminds me of a quote from The Great Gatsby:
'Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.'
To prove that I was alive and well following my ordeal and after watching Everest (2015), I decide to set myself a challenge; to cycle all the way from home up to the top of Holme Moss (524m), one soggy Saturday. Stopping for oxygen at each hairpin bend of the ascent, I felt elated as the fog and rain tried hard to suffocate me. Even the dead hare at the roadside did not deter me. At one steep point close to the summit, painted on the road in fading white I misread Go Froome for Go Home, as both Le Tour de France and the Tour of Britain have also enjoyed this route. Was it altitude sickness, the lashing rain smudging letters or do I need my eyes testing again? The usually magnificent views from the top were completely submerged in thick fog, so after devouring my banana and two small emergency chocolates, I quickly photographed the bike before my phone died and then began the freezing cold descent.
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| La reine des montagnes |
I'm almost ready to submit another short story and a poem into a competition and currently reading On Writing by Stephen King. Thanks for reading my diary and I hope you continue to conquer your own challenges, however big or small.
With Love xx
Recently read:
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Reader on the 6.27 by John Paul Didierlaurent
