Today I went for a second mammogram. It was normal. Phew.
But, before it was normal it might not have been for about two weeks. As 42 years on the planet have trained me to do, when I'd start to get worried that today would end in bad news I'd just think of something else. I'd concentrate on grading papers or making Valentines. I planned and executed a dinner party for eight just last night. But eventually the party ended and the moment came when it was time to go to bed and face the silence of actually needing to go find out if I was going to continue loving my small, perky breasts or prepare to say goodbye to them. Okay... I'll be honest... at that point, the point of turning off lights and scooting off to experiment with whether sleep would be possible, I wasn't really worried about saying goodbye to my girls. I was terrified that I might have to KNOW I would have to say goodbye to my boys. Maudlin and dreary, I know, but real. And it's not just real for me, of course. This wondering and waiting is real for most of us at some point.
My friends had each asked me if they could come along while I waited. I declined. It's not my way to build up drama. Better to streamline the emotions, go at it alone than look in a friend's eyes and see they are worried for me. Better to be brave.
So, just before going down to lose myself in Game of Thrones on DVD, I sent out an e-mail explaining how I felt.
I grew up on a hill, secluded from neighbors and strangers by acres of cedar trees and live oaks. One side of the house was nearly all windows, a huge, three-panel sliding door and two huge plate glass windows, all facing a long porch and the side of one of the first hills you come to as you enter the Texas hill country from San Antonio. During the day, the light from the outside was perfect for reading or drawing or lying on the concrete floor escaping the heat of Texas August. At night the light would reflect off the black, shiny glass and, when my whole family was at home, it felt cozy and safe.
And then we'd leave the house to go someplace all together, and my Dad would leave the radio on so it would sound like someone was home. And then he'd shout, "Henry! Don't forget to clean the guns!" I'm sure he was just joking and could never have imagined how I'd translate those words. What I came to believe is that there might always be people lurking in those woods, looking in the windows, waiting for the grown-ups to go away.
So, when I finally got "old enough" to be left at home alone with my brother I was really scared. My fears were brushed aside with the very accurate grown-up wisdom that "nothing bad would happen" and my parents, I'm sure desperate for some time just the two of them, went off to Sneaky Pete's. My brother and I sat on the nubby, grey couch, him playing something, completely unafraid, me hoping I was grown-up enough to keep people from coming into the house to... I'm not even sure what I thought they'd do. All I know is I would NOT look at those big, shiny, black windows. I just knew that one of the bad people would have gained some courage from my parents' absence and that this time I'd actually see some shaggy, hungry face peering back at me. Will had NO idea.
And then the typewriter that sat upstairs in the loft started typing ON ITS OWN! Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-tat... RETURN... rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat.... RETURN.
It would have been simple enough to look up into the loft to see that no one was sitting there typing but I just couldn't do it. I grabbed a very irritated Will and shuffled us up under the loft into the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall. That felt safer. If there was a ghost up there it wouldn't be able to watch us. I never told Will why we had to hang out there under the loft instead of on the couch. I imagine now that he must have thought I was crazy.
I don't even remember much after that except for a fruitless call to Sneaky Pete's and a panicked call to my elderly neighbor who was at our house with us by the time my parents got home. I remember my Dad was furious and embarrassed by my fear. He walked upstairs just as brave as you please to show me the typewriter wasn't even on. "Well, not anymore!" I argued.
Eventually the entire episode was written up to the wind pushing the porch swing up against the side of the house (at the remarkable speed and clatter of a person TYPING, I guess, instead of it's usual lazy-swing boom.... boom... boom...). We all went to bed and that was that.
What remains from the litter of that story having left the screen? Two things:
1. I learned in only the illogical way a little kid can that fear is a thing best kept hidden. It's something to be embarrassed about. Clearly not a message my father would have intentionally taught me, but one I salvaged nonetheless.
2. When ghosts make scary noises, big girls have to look up to see if they are really there, even if what they want to do is run and hide under the loft.
And after recounting the VERY shortened version of the story to my grandmother, her response taught me something new:
It's really okay to just desperately want someone to hide under the loft with you.
I've had years to practice lessons one and two so I'm really good at those ones. And they really do work for me, most of the time. In fact, in a day or two I'll remember how brave I was to face this dreaded mammogram without running and hiding. I certainly didn't show my fear much, even to myself.
But, when I walked out of the mammogram and into the waiting room and saw my friend Jerusha sitting there waiting for me I just cried because I had been so scared and I hadn't known how much I really didn't want to be alone.
But, before it was normal it might not have been for about two weeks. As 42 years on the planet have trained me to do, when I'd start to get worried that today would end in bad news I'd just think of something else. I'd concentrate on grading papers or making Valentines. I planned and executed a dinner party for eight just last night. But eventually the party ended and the moment came when it was time to go to bed and face the silence of actually needing to go find out if I was going to continue loving my small, perky breasts or prepare to say goodbye to them. Okay... I'll be honest... at that point, the point of turning off lights and scooting off to experiment with whether sleep would be possible, I wasn't really worried about saying goodbye to my girls. I was terrified that I might have to KNOW I would have to say goodbye to my boys. Maudlin and dreary, I know, but real. And it's not just real for me, of course. This wondering and waiting is real for most of us at some point.
My friends had each asked me if they could come along while I waited. I declined. It's not my way to build up drama. Better to streamline the emotions, go at it alone than look in a friend's eyes and see they are worried for me. Better to be brave.
So, just before going down to lose myself in Game of Thrones on DVD, I sent out an e-mail explaining how I felt.
I grew up on a hill, secluded from neighbors and strangers by acres of cedar trees and live oaks. One side of the house was nearly all windows, a huge, three-panel sliding door and two huge plate glass windows, all facing a long porch and the side of one of the first hills you come to as you enter the Texas hill country from San Antonio. During the day, the light from the outside was perfect for reading or drawing or lying on the concrete floor escaping the heat of Texas August. At night the light would reflect off the black, shiny glass and, when my whole family was at home, it felt cozy and safe.
And then we'd leave the house to go someplace all together, and my Dad would leave the radio on so it would sound like someone was home. And then he'd shout, "Henry! Don't forget to clean the guns!" I'm sure he was just joking and could never have imagined how I'd translate those words. What I came to believe is that there might always be people lurking in those woods, looking in the windows, waiting for the grown-ups to go away.
So, when I finally got "old enough" to be left at home alone with my brother I was really scared. My fears were brushed aside with the very accurate grown-up wisdom that "nothing bad would happen" and my parents, I'm sure desperate for some time just the two of them, went off to Sneaky Pete's. My brother and I sat on the nubby, grey couch, him playing something, completely unafraid, me hoping I was grown-up enough to keep people from coming into the house to... I'm not even sure what I thought they'd do. All I know is I would NOT look at those big, shiny, black windows. I just knew that one of the bad people would have gained some courage from my parents' absence and that this time I'd actually see some shaggy, hungry face peering back at me. Will had NO idea.
And then the typewriter that sat upstairs in the loft started typing ON ITS OWN! Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-tat... RETURN... rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat.... RETURN.
It would have been simple enough to look up into the loft to see that no one was sitting there typing but I just couldn't do it. I grabbed a very irritated Will and shuffled us up under the loft into the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall. That felt safer. If there was a ghost up there it wouldn't be able to watch us. I never told Will why we had to hang out there under the loft instead of on the couch. I imagine now that he must have thought I was crazy.
I don't even remember much after that except for a fruitless call to Sneaky Pete's and a panicked call to my elderly neighbor who was at our house with us by the time my parents got home. I remember my Dad was furious and embarrassed by my fear. He walked upstairs just as brave as you please to show me the typewriter wasn't even on. "Well, not anymore!" I argued.
Eventually the entire episode was written up to the wind pushing the porch swing up against the side of the house (at the remarkable speed and clatter of a person TYPING, I guess, instead of it's usual lazy-swing boom.... boom... boom...). We all went to bed and that was that.
What remains from the litter of that story having left the screen? Two things:
1. I learned in only the illogical way a little kid can that fear is a thing best kept hidden. It's something to be embarrassed about. Clearly not a message my father would have intentionally taught me, but one I salvaged nonetheless.
2. When ghosts make scary noises, big girls have to look up to see if they are really there, even if what they want to do is run and hide under the loft.
And after recounting the VERY shortened version of the story to my grandmother, her response taught me something new:
It's really okay to just desperately want someone to hide under the loft with you.
I've had years to practice lessons one and two so I'm really good at those ones. And they really do work for me, most of the time. In fact, in a day or two I'll remember how brave I was to face this dreaded mammogram without running and hiding. I certainly didn't show my fear much, even to myself.
But, when I walked out of the mammogram and into the waiting room and saw my friend Jerusha sitting there waiting for me I just cried because I had been so scared and I hadn't known how much I really didn't want to be alone.
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