Magical Madison #5

I hate doctors. I’ve hated them since I was 5-years-old. It was a doctor who told my mom she had breast cancer and a doctor who told her she was dying.

A year later, she died.

I had just turned 17, and although it was an awkward conversation to have with my father, he had told me I had to start going to the gynecologist. I pretended it was because I was of an age where girls just did that sort of thing, since they were becoming sexually active (which, thankfully my dad didn’t ask about), but I knew the real reason.

We both knew the real reason, but we weren’t about to talk about it. We rarely talked about her. Or the “c” word. I was at high risk.

Since I was 12, I gave myself monthly “breast exams” but I didn’t know what I was doing. I felt for lumps. I had lumpy boobs, I always felt lumps; I didn’t know what a cancer lump felt like.

So I went to the doctor. She was nice enough, but I knew she held my future in her hands. Going to the gynecologist was bad enough in and of itself, but regardless of the cold instruments or the doctor’s hands or any other uncomfortable moments of the process, I was the most scared during the breast exam.

I took a deep breath as her fingertips glided over my small breasts. I was sure she could feel my heart beating through my chest. Despite the over air-conditioned office, I was sweating.

At the end of the breast exam, I looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to tell me I had cancerous lump. “You’re all good, I’ll see you in six months.” She said.

I’ve never been so relieved in my life.