Mammogram

Here I am at The Breast Center at St. David’s, waiting for my annual mammogram.

I’ve been coming here for several years. In some ways, it’s nicer than the general imaging center where I used to get my exams. Instead of those awkward hospital gowns, we get real bathrobes with tie belts and pockets. We wait in a Women’s Lounge furnished with comfortable chairs. A round-faced woman with a brown ponytail is here ahead of me, sitting quietly. We nod, but don’t speak.

There are two changing rooms. I enter one and exchange my shirt and bra for a robe. Deposit personal belongings in locker #10 as assigned. Last time I was here, they gave me a wristband with a key. Now the locks are electronic; I have to punch a code on a keypad. It takes two tries to get the locker open.

This lounge used to have free tea and coffee, along with magazines to take a patient’s mind off the impending procedure. All that went away with COVID-19. There’s a TV mounted high on one wall, but it isn’t on today.

There are worse places to sit and wait. But I don’t like being here. I don’t suppose anyone does.

A technician comes for the round-faced woman. Other patients come and go, changing into robes or back into street clothes. A stocky woman with short gray hair. A tall, lanky gal in runner’s sandals. A classy blonde wearing a watch and multiple bracelets. We come in different sizes and shapes, but we’re all here for the same reason.

When my turn comes, they’ll take me to an examining room and ask me to slip off one sleeve of my robe. The technician will introduce herself so that she won’t be a complete stranger when she grabs my tit with both hands and positions it on the imaging plate. She’ll manipulate my shoulder and armpit, putting them where they won’t block the view, and then lower the compression plate until my breast is smashed between two hard surfaces. We’ll set up for two sets of pictures – one horizontal, one vertical – then repeat the whole process on the other side.

None of this is exactly fun, but it isn’t the main reason I hate this exam. The real reason is this: Every time I walk into this building, I face the possibility of having my life turned upside down.

It happens. On several occasions in the past 25 years, I’ve been called back for additional imaging. Twice, I’ve been sent for biopsies. I have a titanium clip to mark the spot where a suspicious calcium deposit was excised in 2008; an inch-long scar where a benign lump was removed several years before that.

None of those glitches turned out to be anything life-threatening. I’m lucky; I know it, and I have no right to whine. Who wouldn’t prefer a false alarm to a confirmed case of cancer?

Still, a false alarm doesn’t make for a happy day. When you get the call that says, “We need to take a closer look” … when they send you to a different waiting room because the radiologist wants to talk to you … when you’re at home biting your nails and awaiting biopsy results, you don’t yet know it’s a false alarm. And I always imagine the worst.

So I’m here today at the Breast Center, wishing all this would just go away. I remind myself that there’s no history of breast cancer in my family, that my last four mammograms came back normal. That even the ones that weren’t quite normal turned out to be nothing serious in the end.

Thoughts like this can help settle my nerves, but they aren’t helping now.

Let’s face it: if I knew for sure there was nothing to worry about, I wouldn’t be here, would I?

The Melendy Quartet - by Elizabeth Enright

My Favorite Childhood Reads

With memories of this fictional family dancing in my mind, I Google “Melendy” and see that this series of books is still out there. In multiple printings, plus an audio version that parents can play in the car on long road trips with their kids.

I’m pleased to know that. I was maybe in third grade when I found The Saturdays at my town library. The kids in the Melendy family (Mona, Rush, Randy and Oliver) get bored at home on weekends, so they form a kind of mutual association. Each Saturday, they’ll pool their allowances and give the money to one sibling to spend as s/he chooses. In the 1940s, when these books were written, a couple of bucks would have been enough to get somewhere – especially if you lived in a big city with public transportation, as the Melendys did. The chapters of the book describe their individual adventures. When six-year-old Oliver’s turn comes, nobody really expects him to board a bus and head off by himself -- but he does, with interesting results.

In the next book, the family moves to the country. They live with their father, who's a fairly cool guy, and a housekeeper/nanny named Cuffy, in a house that’s old and peculiar enough to harbor interesting secrets (The Four-Story Mistake.) One of the kids gets to know a teenager named Mark, who appears to be alone in the world. The family eventually adopts him (Then There Were Five). The older kids grow up and get on with their lives. In the last book, Spiderweb for Two, Randy and Oliver are the only ones left at home.

In some ways, this series reminds me of the Narnia Chronicles. Two brothers, two sisters, and a string of adventures that progresses over time. But the Melendys’ lives happen in the everyday world. Sure, it was a world different from mine. My small Texas town didn’t have city buses, subways or art museums. We didn’t have the seasonal changes that the characters experienced in their country home (it was here, I think, that I first heard of “Indian summer.”) But the house, the woods that surrounded it, and the characters that graced the pages were vividly drawn. I felt like I knew this family. I was always thrilled to find the next volume at the library, to know the story wasn't over yet.

The Wind Call - by Rosalie K. Fry

My Favorite Childhood Reads

This book, with its worn hardback cover, has been with me perhaps longer than any other. Mom and Dad would read me chapters at bedtime before I learned to read on my own. The author shares our family name. I’ve often wondered if that’s why my parents (or grandparents?) bought the book.

It’s the story of a tiny boy, a child of the Little People, who arrives unexpectedly in an English garden. An assortment of birds is checking out a strange new plant, something the gardener brought home from a recent holiday in the tropics, when they find the dark-eyed infant sleeping in a flower. The kid is obviously far from home with no one to take care of him. So a pair of songbirds takes him to their nest in a hawthorn tree, and he grows up with three newly hatched chicks.

The “wind call” in the title is that subtle change in the air that marks the approach of fall, telling migratory birds that it’s time to fly south. Father Blackcap sings the little ones to sleep every night with a song about the great flight and their sunny winter home by the Mediterranean Sea.

When his adopted brothers are ready for their first flying lesson, the boy, Pierello, is old enough to climb out of the nest and make his way to the ground. He spends an idyllic summer learning to fend for himself in the woods: picking wild berries, sliding down little waterfalls in the burbling stream, consorting with glow-worms, butterflies, dormice, and all types of birds. There are line drawings of Pierello and his friends, and a half-dozen color pictures printed on special paper. Behind all these happy adventures looms the novel’s Big Question: will this wingless child find a way to go south with his family when the Wind Call comes?

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Looking back, I wonder if my love of nature began with this fairy tale. Many of its creatures were (and still are) unfamiliar to a kid growing up in Texas, but I’ve always suspected the portrayals were accurate. Today, thanks to the Internet, it’s not hard to check. I did some surfing and found that yes, male and female blackcaps do share chick-rearing duties. Nightjars really do fly silently and lay their camouflaged eggs on bare ground.

And what about the author and illustrator, Rosalie K. Fry? I didn't think I'd ever heard of her, aside from this book. But it turns out she wrote several others, and one became the basis for the indie film The Secret of Roan Inish. Wow. Who knew?

The Zany World of Dr. Seuss

My Favorite Childhood Reads

Dr. Seuss has his own Facebook wall. The Grinch is all over it, urging visitors to “grow your heart 3 sizes” by doing a good deed each day from now until Christmas.

I read some odd books as a kid. In some ways, Dr. Seuss’s books are among the oddest – but they’re also some of the best known and universally loved. Who doesn’t instantly recognize the Cat in the Hat’s red-striped stovepipe? Who couldn’t, on command, recite a few lines of Green Eggs and Ham?

I think The Cat in the Hat was the first Seuss book I read. I loved it. It was so much better than those dull Dick-and-Jane readers we used in primary school. I was even more fascinated when the Cat came back, left a nasty ring in his unwilling hosts’ bathtub, and wound up staining the whole hillside a garish pink.

Having gotten acquainted with the distinctive look of Dr. Seuss characters, I started to seek them out whenever I went to the library. I met Horton the elephant, Sam-I-Am, Bartholomew Cubbins of the 500 hats, the pointlessly prejudiced Sneetches, the parade of wildly fanciful creatures that marched across the pages of If I Ran the Zoo and If I Ran the Circus (two of my favorites.) And of course the immortal Grinch, who tried to eliminate Christmas and wound up saving himself.

I am clearly not the only kid who never forgot these stories. Just last night I went Christmas caroling with a group of friends. We came upon a front-yard display with life-size cutouts of the Grinch, his dog Max and a whole village of Whos. No kids in sight, just a middle-aged man who came out to listen. We sang him all six verses of “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” from the movie version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

As a writer, I have other reasons to admire Dr. Seuss. His galloping verses, so easy to read, couldn’t have been easy to write. But he kept turning them out, decade upon decade, still publishing new works long after I grew up. The Seuss Enterprises website says there are 44 books under the name of Dr. Seuss, plus 22 more that he wrote under other pen names. Okay, none of them is a tome like War and Peace, but still. Each one tells a story, or presents a new idea, or makes a point. And of course he did his own illustrations, too.

Here’s a bit that’s often mentioned in writers’ workshops, when they’re coaching us on the kind of determination it may take to break into the publishing market: Dr. Seuss’s first kiddie book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, was turned down by at least twenty publishers. They didn’t know what to do with it. They couldn’t see where it fit. What if he’d given up after the tenth rejection letter? Or the 12^th, or the 15^th? This story lives in my memory bank and pops up whenever I need reminding: if I really have something to say, don’t let the naysayers hush me up.

Theodor Seuss Geisel had plenty to say, and he’s still saying it. Go to the kids’ section of your library, your favorite bookstore, and you’ll see. Pull up one of the movies based on his books (they're still making new ones!) Or go check out some holiday decorations.