Reception A

Yesterday was not my first mammogram, but it was the first one since Vicki's diagnosis of terminal metastatic breast cancer nearly a year ago, so I celebrated the occasion by having a full-blown, hyperventilating-and-snot-nosed-crying panic attack in the waiting room.

My heart started pounding uncontrollably the minute I made the snap decision to get the mammogram done.  I was already in the Kaiser building picking up a prescription and getting my new glasses adjusted anyway, so I might as well get tested for cancer, too.  Right?

No big deal.

I fidgeted anxiously in line at the pharmacy, picking at my nails and fussing with my necklace.  "I can do this," I thought to myself.

I bounced my foot impatiently while I was seated in the waiting area of the optical center.  "It'll be fine," I muttered under my breath, looking around nervously and trying to take a normal breath.

And then I was standing at Reception A, filling out the pre-mammogram questionnaire.

Other members of your immediate family with a history of breast cancer?  I checked off the boxes.

Mother.

Sister.

Age of sister at diagnosis?  48

Your current age:  48

"Wow, girl, you're really fucked, aren't you?"

I blinked hard, and looked up at the receptionist.  "I'm sorry, what did you say?  I wasn't listening."

She chuckled softly, her kind brown eyes crinkling at the edges, and repeated her question.

"What's your date of birth?" 

Suddenly, it was a different Monday - the last one of the dozens of Monday mornings I had stood in this exact spot, in front of this same lovely woman, helping Vicki fill out the pre-chemotherapy blood draw paperwork.

"What's the date?" she asked me.  I told her, and she wrote down the letter F.

"Let me," I said gently, and took the pen from her to correct the mistake.  She fumbled through her wallet to handle the co-pay, but couldn't find what she was looking for.

"Pahla, which one...?"  She had a grocery store rewards card in her hand and a sad, confused look on her face.

"Not that one, sweetie, " I smiled at her.  "I'll find it."

She handed me her wallet and bent forward to lean against the counter.  Standing upright was painful and exhausting.

The receptionist smiled at me but didn't say anything, infinitely patient with this difficult transaction.

I wanted to show her pictures of Vicki, my Vicki, from just a few short months ago.  I desperately wished she could meet the healthy, vital, confident and in control Vicki.  Vicki who had pretty hair and a beautiful smile.  Vicki who didn't need help finding the only credit card in her wallet.  Vicki who stood up straight and walked quickly, who made decisions and laughed easily.

The real Vicki.

Instead, I finished up the questions and helped Vicki return to her seat.  I said nothing.

I thought about that receptionist a few days after Vicki died, while I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep but crying instead.

I wondered if she had noticed - after months of regular Monday morning visits - Vicki's absence. I wanted to thank her for the kindness she had shown Vicki at every visit, treating my sister with dignity and patience, making easy small talk and never letting on if it was frustrating to have such a simple exchange take so much longer than necessary.

Like this one.

The blood from my pounding heart was rushing in my ears, making it difficult to understand anything she was saying to me.  It seemed to take several long minutes to finish the questionnaire, more time than that to make the payment.  The machine had probably been beeping for some time before she gently directed me to remove my credit card.

I wanted to say something, but even as the scenario flitted through my head - "Thank you so much for being so sweet to my sister,"  "Yes, of course, how is she doing?"  "She passed away in December." - I could feel my breath catching in my chest and a lump forming in my throat.

"Have a seat and they'll call you shortly."

I looked in her eyes and knew this was all I was going to be able to choke out:  "Thank you."

I turned away quickly and started digging in my bag for my phone.  With my head down, maybe nobody would notice.  I sat down abruptly and put my hand over my mouth to try to regulate the tiny, shallow breaths.  Tears pooled in my eyes.  Thank goodness I was only pretending to look at my phone, because I couldn't actually see it.

I looked in my purse for a tissue - why don't I ever have tissues? - and wiped my face surreptitiously.

Some time later, when my breathing calmed a little, I looked up and around the full waiting room.  My eyes were immediately drawn to the window, where there was a springtime display of butterflies.

Of course.

Vicki - warm, vibrant and alive - sat next to me and put her hand on my arm.  "You've done harder things than this, Pahla."

I have.  I really, really have.