On Breasts
The mammogram waiting room is the great equalizer.
Growing up, I frequently spent weekends with my Godmother. We lived outside of Chicago and my parents would send my brother and me to her Gold Coast apartment via the train - sans mobile devices -to stretch us a little and shift the scenery from our small-town lives. My Godmother embodied sophistication and freedom, her refrigerator was lined sparsely with the now-deceased soda brand Tab, Lean Cusines and skim milk - trivial items next to silky, rich, intentionally chilled French skincare. She’d guide us through her neighborhood, down the aptly named Rush Street in the height of the 80’s, draped unapologetically in a real mink coat, a fresh Virginia Slim balanced between her long fingers. Rush Street was an artery of after-dark indulgence. Smokey, boozy, perfume-filled air floated over tables clinking with glasses, echoing with bold laughter and unbothered cursing. It felt like I could never open my eyes wide enough to take it all in.
“Look for the banker shoes,” she’d say.
Even at that age, I understood the essence of what she meant. At the time, the term largely encompassed men – successful men who could afford sharp, shiny shoes. Special shoes.
I scanned the mammogram waiting room. Women – mostly my age – shifted in their chairs, clad in ill-fitting pink, cafeteria worker smocks, tied in two places so their breasts could be released efficiently when called to service. It’s collective, this experience. Democratized. We periodically triple check our braless fronts, ensuring those sneaky mams haven’t escaped before their time, folding our arms over ourselves, smiling at each other kindly. Knowingly.
The door swings open.
“Rachel?”
She jumps up quickly; her laptop clunks on the floor. She pats herself down for her glasses, which are already perched on her head.
“Oh boy, sooner than I thought, so sorry! Sorry, let me just get all of this. I brought so much stuff, just wasn’t sure how long the wait would be. I brought too much, always do. So sorry.”
We smile empathetically and nod in alignment, as if to say, “we do that too. We take up space too. We’re sorry too.”
We’re scared too.
I looked down, past my untethered breasts, at my shoes – some of my favorite Nike sneakers. They say, “I’m a mom but I used to walk to work in the city with Kings of Leon in my headphones.” I scanned the room, taking in the spectrum. Soft, pliable ballet flats, smart, quietly confident loafers, edgy suede ankle boots, clackety-clack mules, nearly naked strappy sandals; and power-stance pumps – all broadcasting different messages to the world. It’s a luxury, this choice we’re given – to decorate our outsides, to curate the version of ourselves we want others to see. Even if our outsides don’t match our insides. Sometimes that’s the point. We bring bags of crap to the mammogram waiting room to keep the volume of noise exactly where it needs to be. To keep reality at bay. We’re all connected in this quiet effort to stay separate from one another. To pretend that certain kinds of life won’t happen to us.
The heavy door swung open, as every head popped up in anticipation. Rachel returned and gathered some lay-of-the-land information before resuming her wait.
“They’ll call you shortly for an ultrasound. Bathroom there. Water and snacks over there.”
“Microplastics,” I muttered, nodding toward the water bottles, certain the pink smock beside me would share in the irony. She smiled charitably.
“Megan?”
“Megan?”
I jolted up, fumbling for my book, glasses, phone, my toxic hospital-issued water bottle and apologized profusely. “Sorry. The wait was shorter than I thought. So sorry. Be right there. I always bring too much stuff.”
A gentle hand, attached to an arm wrapped in a pink smock touched my shoulder, as a woman leaned in.
“Same.”