Maybe two weeks ago, I ran into one of my bosom buddies. She and I are really close friends. Eons ago, I helped her elope and later helped with the disengagement so we are tied together in knots. We decided to have lunch and before I knew it, she was taking me to her doctor that weekend.
Actually, I asked her to take me to her doctor who is one of these new medical doctors who have turned alternative or homeopathic. She does not prescribe chemical drugs and she is younger than I so (I hope) I can tell her what to do. First, she attaches me to a computer and there we visit my flawed heart, which beats irregularly most of the time. It’s inherited from my father’s family. She says the front of my heart is good, but the back is not so good. That doesn’t bother me. Since my stroke I’ve had enough time to adjust to that fact: I have a bad heart.
Then we go to that part that’s been giving me a problem lately. She examines me and notices that I have quite a few red moles. “Those mean you have hormonal imbalance. You must get an ultrasound,” she says.
I plan to ultrasound on Thursday but my cousin Didit invites me to go to a bazaar, lunch then jewelry class. That’s sounds like fun. So finally on Friday, without make-up and looking like a limp rag, I go to Makati Medical Center and head for Information. I hand the girl my doctor’s slip. “To The Breast Clinic, ma’am. Turn left, take the escalator, then turn right. . .”
I don’t want to go to The Breast Clinic, I find myself telling me. So I head for the shop that sells magazines. I see an attractive magazine titled Psychologies. It is a British magazine with an article on ageing. That’s how they spell it there. In America they spell it aging. How interesting. I buy it. P750, the young lady says and I gasp. It is expensive, but I pay for it anyway, a treat. I carry it upstairs holding it close to my breast.
I enter The Breast Clinic. It is pretty. There is a counter on your left with three young ladies behind. There are plastic seats, similar to airport seats, against the wall. Behind the three young ladies there’s a TV set showing chefs and later Kris Aquino. I have to fill up a sheet and even indicate where I have a lump. There I’ve said it. I have a lump in my breast. Like so many women, but I have been in denial for a long time. Maybe I have had it for six months to a year. I don’t know but this ultrasound required is driving me up the wall.
I sit and look around. The clinic is really pretty. There are a lot of natural-looking fake flowers. There is something like a plugged-in aromatherapy thing scenting the air. I read my expensive magazine but don’t understand anything. I look at the article on ageing/aging and realize it stops at 50. What happens when you’re 60? You just disappear from this world? You just die?
Finally, they call my name. I am escorted to a small dressing room and given instructions on how to don the ultrasound coat. Then I am told to wait in another waiting room with more fake flowers, aromatherapy and a TV set until I am summoned for my ultrasound.
First, there is a verification of my identity. Are you Barbara Cruz Gonzalez with two z’s? Yes. Born on August 8, 1944? Yes. I have to put hot ointment on you. Occasionally I gasp – Ouch! Aray! Then she tells me to get dressed and wait at the inside waiting room.
The med tech approaches, followed by a doctor. “Are you the friend of Gon and Beang?” The doctor asks.
“Yes,” I say, with trepidation.
“I recognized your name, they are my friends, too.” Then she disappears. I am told I can pick up the results on October 5. Okay, I shrug, grasping at indifference, but I am not the least indifferent. I am superbly anxious.
On October 3, my friend Emily and I get together. I tell her about my ultrasound. The next day, she texts me. She is at a meeting and meets this doctor who is Gon and Beang’s friend. Later that same day, the doctor texts me, requests me to return because there are things in my ultrasound she wants to clarify. My anxiety goes up.
I return the next day, this time fully made up and glam. I ask to see her and don’t have to wait long. I go through the whole ritual again. Finally, in the ultrasound room, she comes in and looks again at my lump. “The next step is a biopsy,” she says. “You can either have that surgically or through a needle.” I don’t think she realizes the panic that rises in me. “Then you can go to a doctor who will do the surgery if required.” I just look at her. I don’t want surgery.
Finally, the report is done. I read it but don’t understand a thing. I pass by Floating Island and look at the cakes on display. Oh, they have butter cake. I love butter cake. I walk away five steps then turn around. May I have a slice of butter cake? May I eat it now? I go down the stairs, down the escalator eating a slice of butter cake, thinking, I should have bought the whole darn cake. I have a huge lunch followed by about six, no eight, oh well I finished what was left of the oatmeal crisps.
I wondered – should I write about this? Women always find lumps in their breasts and men always have prostate problems. I guess we all have problems with the organs we have two of. Anyway, is that tamarind candy I see? I love tamarind candy. . . please. . . no surgery.
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