My Lucky Day

Copyright 2016 by Abbie Johnson Taylor

 

 

On a September morning in 2016, I stepped out of the shower and was drying myself when I discovered something on my left breast. It felt like the moles on other parts of my skin the dermatologist said were nothing to worry about. I told myself I was making a mountain out of a mole, but the fact that it was on my left breast was worrisome.

 

I hurriedly dressed, called the women’s clinic, and was able to get an appointment for later that morning. Since I couldn’t drive due to my limited vision, I called the transit service to arrange a ride. The dispatcher said, “We’ll get you there, but you’ll have to be patient getting home.”

 

As I put my cell phone in my pocket, I thought that if I wasn’t diagnosed with breast cancer, I would have all the time in the world. I then realized that the nurse-practitioner at the clinic probably wouldn’t be able to tell if the spot was cancer by looking at it. A biopsy would need to be scheduled, and that would mean waiting and wondering.

 

I threw myself into my work, eating half a bagel and banana at my desk while checking email. I then started work on a blog post. Fifteen minutes before my scheduled pick-up time, I was ready. The bus was late.

 

It was about ten minutes before my scheduled appointment, and the driver said, “I’ve got a couple people to pick up before I can get you there. Sorry.”

 

Oh, great, I thought, and I removed my cell phone from my pocket. “Just tell them it’s our fault,” the driver said. “We had a scheduling problem.”

 

The “scheduling problem” was my fault. The transit service usually preferred to book rides at least a day in advance. But I’d convinced the dispatcher it was urgent, and in situations like this, they did their best to be accommodating.

 

When I called the clinic a second time from the bus, the receptionist asked, “When do you think you’ll be here?”

 

“I don’t know,” I answered, exasperated. “I’ll be there when I can. Just tell the nurse-practitioner I’m coming.”

 

As the bus bumped along, I reflected. I thought my life was going great until now. My new memoir was out, and a couple of promotion events were scheduled. Why did this have to happen now?

 

I remembered the time when my late husband Bill suffered his first stroke. We’d been married for three months and were happy, then boom! Was this thing on my breast another bomb about to drop? Why?

 

I alternated between these thoughts and telling myself again I was making a mountain out of a mole. I thought of my editor, Leonore Dvorkin, who fought her own battle with breast cancer years earlier and lived to write a memoir about it. While she was recovering from surgery, her husband David took care of her. I no longer had a husband. If I needed a lump or the whole breast removed, I would have to depend on the kindness of friends. My brother would probably want to fly in from Florida, but with a wife and five kids and working two jobs to make ends meet, he couldn’t afford it.

 

When we finally arrived at the medical complex housing the women’s clinic, I was surprised when my talking watch told me it was ten-forty-five, the actual time of the appointment. My white cane swinging in front of me, I dashed to the elevator and found the Braille-labeled button for the second floor.

 

“It’s probably nothing,” I told Tracy, the nurse-practitioner moments later. “It could just be a mole, but I thought I should have it checked out.”

 

“Absolutely!” she said. Her calm voice and demeanor helped me relax.

 

I placed my index finger on the spot, and she examined it. “It looks like just a clogged pore.”

 

“You mean it’s nothing to worry about?”

 

“It’s nothing to worry about. It should clear up soon.”

 

“Yes! I don’t have breast cancer. Life can go on,” I yelled, as I almost skipped down the deserted hall from the clinic to the elevator.

 

On the ground floor, I stood inside the entrance, having called the transit service to request a ride before leaving the clinic. I was prepared to “be patient,” but to my surprise and delight, a bus pulled up a few minutes later. This was my lucky day!

***

The above piece was published here several years ago and appears in the fall/winter issue of Magnets and Ladders. You can click on the link below to read the magazine. Thank you for stopping by.

 

MAGNETS AND LADDERS / Active Voices of Writers with Disabilities

 

Photo Courtesy of Tess Anderson Photography

Photo Resize and Description

by Two Pentacles Publishing

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