Fifteen

The Good Kind of Speechless

So, the past few days, I slowed my roll and let the flu and bronchitis take over for a bit. Try as I might, I didn’t feel like sitting up to type, nor could I form a thought anyone under the sun would really want to read about. (Let me tell you about the phlegm in my throat! Ever feel so dizzy you wanted to cry?! . . . doesn’t make for thrilling reading, fo’ sho’).

Anyhoo, I’m back. And it’s a moment I shared with the radiologist at the local Doc In A Box the other night that has inspired me to write this, so really the winter crud is a good thing.

I’ve written before about the ups, downs, difficulties, and interestingness of sharing information regarding my history with breast cancer with strangers. In my most recent exploration on this topic, I wrote an open letter to strangers, advising them to consider the age-old adage of “think before ye speak” when sharing superfluous stories. I still love that post, even though I did very little thinking during writing or editing after. It just all poured out, my only fear being that I sounded more negative or bitter than I truly feel. 

As I mentioned in that letter (entitled “A PSA of Sorts”), there’s always a slippery moment when you share with someone that you’ve had breast cancer. Will they be reminded of someone they love, whose battle has hurt them? Will they be inspired by the fact that I’m simply standing and want to talk about it a bit? Or will they simply change the subject, which is usually what I hope for the most, because we can both avoid interpreting any emotional complexities that the C-word invokes for each and every one of us? No matter what, usually I can take it--manage the response, especially if I’m feeling strong or the person is kind. And the farther and farther I get from my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, the less I find myself even wanting--or, rather, needing--to bring it up. It’s slowly becoming more of a part of yesterday than today.

(I just knocked on wood for about two minutes straight.)

When I’m faced with a situation in which I have to share my un-implanted bare chest with a stranger, however, the big C inevitably must come up. Thank goodness sharing my nudity doesn’t come often, as I don’t work in the adult film industry and I’m not an exhibitionist. At the Patient First the other night, though, I was instructed to take off my clothes from my waist up (“Including your bra,” came the familiar, deadweight instruction), put the smock on (“open in the back”), and head to the X-ray department to rule out pneumonia. I was greeted at the door of the small, sterile room by a short, rotund, serious woman in a Patient First polo shirt and elastic-waisted khakis. She reminded me of a brooding teddy bear.

Here’s where my instincts kick in and I think to myself, I’m going to freak her the f*** out  if she sees I have no breasts. I balanced the pros and cons of saying something, fearing the inevitable conversation that would result (would it be too chit-chatty? would it suck? would it hurt?), before quickly deciding I should spare her any future embarrassment by just putting it out there:

“Oh, by the way, I’ve had a double mastectomy, so if you’re wondering why I have no breasts . . . [nervous giggle . . .]”

She looked up at me and smiled. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m used to that. I only have one breast myself.”

I was relieved, immediately comfortable around one of the Sisterhood. I couldn’t help myself and reflexively looked down at her chest like an asshole, but she didn’t seem to notice. Unfortunately, she seemed to want to talk more, so I raised my guard a bit as she shuffled me around the room.

“Press your shoulders against the board here,” she directed. 

“I have a hard time with my left shoulder. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Just do the best you can.” Adjust, adjust, adjust. “So how long ago did you have your surgery?”

Deep breath. “Oh, five years now. Five and a half, actually.”

Adjust, adjust. The response that came next was a a delightful, strange sentence:

“Oh. That’s not too bad.”

I’m rarely speechless, but she rendered me that way. WHAT do I say to that? No one has ever responded that way before. It was, frankly, awesome. No sympathy, no extensive discussion, no stories about relatives who have been re-diagnosed or friends who have passed. Just “that’s not too bad.” I loved it. I had nothing to say, other than just to nod and admit, “You’re right.”

Because, truth is, that’s NOT too bad. It’s pretty damn great.

She went on to tell me her surgery was three years ago, and I told her I hope she’s feeling great, and then the C-Word Conversation stopped. We went on to chat about my cough, whether my breathing treatment was helping, and all of the junk that brought me to her in the first place.

The moment she made me speechless, with no need to raise my shackles or protect myself or end up comforting someone I don't know, swallowing fear and gross memories in the process . . . it was a happy one. I’m thankful for it.

Turns out my x-ray looked great. Totally clear. In other words, damn good. 

Not too bad at all.