Mindlessly drumming my thumbs on my steering wheel to the beat of some semi-familiar song on the radio, I try desperately to keep from thinking about where I'm headed. My body betrays me as my eyes shift right, glancing at the open appointment book on the passenger's seat. The capital letters, traced several times over in permanent black ink, stand out against the crisp white page marked 'Tuesday, June 13'. "APPOINTMENT WITH DR. SEDWICK @ 10 AM," I read aloud as I come to a red light. Closing my eyes, I lean back against the headrest and exhale sharply. There are very few things I dread in life, but my annual trip to the gynecologist ranks right up there with having a root canal or shoving a red-hot poker through my eye.
Abuela was very understanding about having to postpone this morning's therapy session, even though I know she is eager to work as many hours as possible before the end of the week. Encouraged by the tremendous progress made yesterday, she has resolved to leave her wheelchair at home and walk through the doors of St. Michael's to witness the christening of her first great-grandchild this Friday. Her stamina is greatly improved and the walker is now like a fifth appendage, helping her slowly navigate the distance from one end of the exercise room to the other. Inspired by her unyielding determination, I am convinced that she has the capability to meet her goals.
The honking car behind me lets me know that the light is now green, and I sweetly wave a hand in front of the rearview mirror and mouth the words 'I'm sorry' before crossing the intersection. Elton John begins to sing "Daniel's Song", and my mind drifts back to the second floor of the Santos mansion. Knowing that my thoughts would have invariably meandered to Danny regardless of this blatant reminder pounding in my ears, I curse the radio station and fumble with the knob just the same.
I must have replayed Sunday's bedroom encounter a million times over in my head in the past forty-eight hours, imagining a dozen different reactions I could have had to seeing him in all of his glory before me. Each scenario ends the same... him motioning me to walk towards him and then leading me to that huge bed of his with the rumpled bedcovers. In my dreams, I can feel his skin beneath my fingertips and his hands sliding over the most intimate parts of my body. As I looked down at my own naked body last night in the soapy comfort of my bathtub, I could see in my mind's eye, as clearly as if he were there with me, the juncture of our bodies as he pushed the length of himself inside me. That is the fantasy... the illusion. The reality is that we haven't seen each other since Sunday, although I'm unsure if it's me that's avoiding him or vice versa. Doesn't matter, I tell myself. The more distance between Danny Santos and I, the better. It's no wonder I've never been able to get away with a single lie I've told... I can't even convince myself.
Nervous butterflies begin to flutter uncontrollably when the eleven floors of Cedars Hospital loom into view before me, ripping me from the alternate universe to which I have grown quite accustomed. Parking the car in the first vacant visitor's spot I find, I glance down at my watch, realizing that I am a little over forty minutes early. Perfect, I think... that gives me plenty of time to make a quick stop before my appointment.
Smiling as I hear the familiar 'whoosh' of the electronic doors closing behind me, I walk to the group of elevators just left of the lobby. One is busily making its descent from the eleventh floor pharmacy but the other sits with its doors open wide, waiting to take me to my destination. I step inside and hit the button marked '4', watching as the doors press together. Not having done this in a little over two months, I find myself nervously fingering the handles on my purse as the elevator slowly makes the short climb. When the doors open in front of me and I step off, everything seems familiar and foreign all at once.
Staring at the sign on the wall opposite me, I read the words aloud and realize for the first time, the irony of my present situation, "< Orthopedics ..... Rehabilitation >" Had it not been for Jesse leaving, I would have never quit my job here at Cedars when I did. Had I not quit my job, I would have met abuela when she was a patient here nearly two months ago, treating her no differently than any of the other countless patients whose memories now blend together in my mind. She would have been discharged and soon forgotten, and Ray would have hired someone else to do the private duty care for her that I now cherish so dearly. And... I would have never met Danny Santos. Turning right and making my way towards the rehab clinic, I can't help but wonder if fate was at work all those months ago.
Although she has her head bent, diligently working on a patient's chart, I would recognize that fire engine red hair anywhere. Clearing my throat to get her attention, I say, "Well, hello stranger."
Shock and then joy take their turns registering on her face before she abandons her work and bolts from around the desk, pulling me into warm embrace. "Michelle!" she shrieks, "It's so good to see you. I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you too, Gracie," I whisper in her ear, smiling as I gently pat her back before we part. Scanning the room for any other former coworkers, I am met with a sea of new faces.
Ignoring the curious stares of everyone around us, she says, "Well, life sure is agreeing with you now. You look great." I smile at her compliment, remembering the emotional wreck I was the last time I saw her, coming to collect my final paycheck. "What brings you back?" Before I get a chance to respond, she finishes, placing her hands on her hips, "Come to get your old job back?"
Smiling, I glance down at my watch and answer, "No. Actually, I've got a doctor's appointment in a little while and I thought I'd stop by to say 'hello' to the old gang before I head over there. Where's everybody else?"
Looking over her shoulder at the other ladies standing idly around, pretending not to be eavesdropping on our conversation, she says, "Well, Jessica and Donna have gone to part time and Susan is on vacation, so I'm all you'll get today." As I try to mask my disappointment, she asks curiously, "So, what have you been up to these days?"
Everyone, including Gracie, thought I was crazy when I turned in my resignation... even I questioned my sanity. I was earning a wonderful salary and had excellent benefits. Jesse's leaving was the catalyst for my decision to quit, but I realized that I had been disillusioned in my job for some time. I never felt like my patients were receiving the one-on-one quality of care that they deserved. I lived off of my savings and cut my expenses by moving in with Rick and Abby for a while. So when I read Ray's ad in the June 1 edition of 'The Springfield Journal', it was like an answer to my prayers... a chance at the new beginning I so desperately craved. Realizing that my mind has wandered, I answer sincerely, "Well, I've been working private duty for a little while now, and I honestly love it."
"Oh, so you got the job? Congratulations. Good for you," she says, clasping my hand between hers.
Monumentally confused, I ask, "What... you knew about the job... how?"
A brief look of panic washes over her features before she says, "I spoke with your employer... Mr. Santos, right?... in regard to your letter of reference." She waits for me to nod in response before, curiosity getting the better of her, she asks, "Is it true what they were saying about him in the news? Was he responsible for the drunk driving death of that young woman?"
I am beginning to think that coming here was a huge error in judgment. Saddened by her morbid interest, I correct, "You've got him mixed up with his cousin, Gracie. Ray Santos is a priest at St. Michael's." Feeling the sudden need to defend Danny, I add, "Danny Santos was the man driving, and no, those news reports are nothing but vicious rumors. There is no truth to them, whatsoever."
"Now I'm the one who's confused. I don't know any Ray Santos. Danny is the man I spoke with last Thursday," she says, looking at me to gauge my reaction. When I offer nothing more than a blank stare, she continues, "He said that he was considering hiring you to do some private duty work for his grandmother, and asked if I had a moment to answer a few questions. Of course, I agreed because I wanted you to find some work that made you happy..."
Her words sinking in, I rudely hold up a hand to silence her, interrupting, "Wait a minute. Did you say he called on Thursday?" When she nods, I turn my eyes heavenward, closing them briefly before focusing on her pale face again. "That's not possible. I have been working for his grandmother for over a week now. Why would he say he was considering me when I already had the job? You must be mistaken about the date."
Racking her brain, she shakes her head from side to side before saying, "No... I'm positive that he called on Thursday. I remember because Thursdays are my days to make rounds with the doctors, and I had just completed rounds with Dr. Blanda when I was called to the phone." Seeing disbelief flash behind my eyes, she continues, "Besides... I wouldn't forget a phone call like that."
Growing more uneasy by the second, I ask suspiciously, "What do you mean?"
"Well, the conversation started out innocently enough. He wanted to know what I knew about your education and any previous experience you may have had." Giving her a nod of encouragement, I focus on her lips as she forms each word. "Then he started asking more personal questions about you and I guess that he could tell that I was getting uncomfortable, because he tried his best to reassure me that he was only curious because this was a live-in position that you were applying for."
With a shaky voice, I ask meekly, "What did he want to know?" Something deep inside tells me I'm not going to like her response, but I press on nonetheless.
Walking back to her spot behind the desk, she puts a measurable amount of space between us before answering, "He wanted to know if you were seeing anyone." I can't believe my ears, and when I am on the verge of opening my mouth to ask her why in the name of God she would even answer such a question, she finishes, "He said that before he could hire you, he had to be sure that there were no romantic entanglements that would prevent you from fulfilling your duties."
The nerve of that man. Everything is suddenly becoming crystal clear. Danny Santos was checking up on me... but why? Retracing the events of the previous week, I recall our little run-in in the kitchen last Wednesday when I first mentioned Bill. The bastard called here trying to find out if Bill and I were an item. With flaming eyes and flushed cheeks, I ask in a voice as sweet as I can muster through clenched teeth, "What did you tell him?"
Wary of how I may react to her response, she carefully chooses her words, saying, "I told him that you had been engaged, but that it didn't work out. I also told him that I hadn't seen you in two and a half months, so I really didn't know anything beyond that." Trying to pacify me when I make no move to offer any kind of response, she adds, "Please believe me, Michelle... I swear that I never once mentioned Jesse's name. I told him only the bare minimum. You have to understand... I didn't want to be rude, for fear that you wouldn't land the job. I had good intentions. You believe that, right?"
Suddenly understanding the predicament she was in, I wonder if I wouldn't have handled the situation in the very same way. "Of course I believe you, and I appreciate what you did. Thank you," I say, leaning over to give her hand a light squeeze.
Breathing a huge sigh of relief, she says, "Thank God. Besides... when he found out that I hadn't had any contact with you in so long, he wasn't interested in anything more that I had to say and that was the end of the conversation." Of course he wasn't interested, I think. He wanted some information on Bill, and you didn't know squat.
Looking down at my watch, I realize that I've killed twenty-five minutes. "I need to get going. It was good to see you," I say, pulling her around the desk for another hug. I can feel her eyes on my back as I walk to the elevators. When the doors start to close, I lift my eyes to hers one final time and she looks away, embarrassed by having been caught staring. As the elevator grunts and hums its way down to the lobby, I say with a devilish cackle, "You messed with the wrong chick, Danny Santos. Just wait until I get home." This time when the image of Danny's naked body pops into my mind, I see myself tying his balls into a neat little bow.
Pushing through the double doors near the smoker's pavilion, I begin the long walk across the breezeway that connects Cedars to the Women's Health complex. My heels click against the terrazzo floor and my toes ache, reminding me why I'm in love with my beat-up old tennis shoes. Another quick elevator ride up to the sixth floor deposits me in front of the oak door labeled 'Margaret Sedwick, M.D.' Signing in, I take a seat next to a very pregnant black woman and begin thumbing through a copy of Cosmo that I'm sure I read in this very office a year ago. Focusing on the pictures, I try my damnedest to think about anything besides my upcoming exam.
Before long, the nurse peeks her head out of the small door to my left and makes eye contact with me, saying, "Ms. Bauer." I follow behind as if I'm being led to the lethal injection table. Taking several deep breaths, I try to calm myself down as she slips the blood pressure cuff on my arm and inserts a thermometer under my tongue. Not surprisingly, my blood pressure is a little elevated. We walk out into the hallway to get my weight, and I watch as her hands level the scale. Delighted that I've lost four pounds since last year, I smile as I step down and return to my exam room to undress.
Waiting patiently for Dr. Sedwick, I drape the sheet over my lap as I sit on the edge of the exam table dressed in the flimsiest paper gown imaginable. My eyes scan the diagrams on the walls, settling on a sketch of the engorged breast of a lactating woman as I recall the pregnant lady in the waiting room. Beginning to make a mental note of how I want to spend the rest of the day, my mind wanders back to the Santos mansion. I hope I get back in time to help Olga prepare lunch. She insisted on coming back to work yesterday, but she has conceded to let me help her with the chores until she's fully recovered. I am brought out of my reverie by the two soft knocks that precede Dr. Sedwick's entrance.
Shaking my hand, she asks, "Michelle... how are you feeling today, dear?"
I'll be a whole lot better once we get this over with, I think. Instead, I answer, "Fine. And you?"
Stepping in front of me, she offers no response other than a warm smile as she places her hands on the sides of my throat, feeling the glands. "Can't complain," she says finally. Removing the stethoscope from around her neck, she places it in her ears and listens to my heart, lungs, and bowel sounds. "Are your periods staying regulated?" she asks as she helps me lie down and begins to press her fingers into my abdomen, looking at my face for any signs of pain. I nod my head 'yes' and she smiles, saying, "Good. Then I'll renew the same prescription before you leave."
Two years ago, my periods were so heavy and irregular that I had to start taking birth control pills to regulate them. Jesse was so thrilled that he no longer had to wear a condom or wait for me to insert my diaphragm when the mood hit him... I don't think he gave a rat's ass about my medical problem. Good riddance, I remind myself before realizing that Dr. Sedwick is untying the bow at the neck of my gown.
"I'm going to do the breast exam now," she says, bending my right arm and placing it under my head. I watch her fingers glide over my right breast, moving in slow circles from the outer edges in towards the nipple. She repeats this with the left breast, but this time her fingers hesitate just below and to the right of the nipple. Increasing the pressure she is applying, I watch as concern flickers behind her eyes.
"What?" I ask worriedly, and she lifts my right hand, pressing my fingers into the spot where hers were just seconds before. Feeling a small, hard knot probably no bigger than the size of an English pea, I implore, "What do you think it is?"
Removing her hand from mine, she looks down into my eyes and asks, "You haven't noticed it before now?" I shake my head 'no', fighting back the tears that I can feel stinging the backs of my eyes. Reassuringly she states, "It's probably nothing more than a benign cyst, but we shouldn't ignore it. We'll finish with your checkup and then we'll talk in my office about your options, ok?"
I manage to nod my head, unable to utter a sound even though my mind is screaming. Options? I have options? This is serious. Cancer. I've got cancer. How can I have breast cancer at twenty-two? I'll have to have a mastectomy and probably radiation treatments, and I'll always worry that the cancer will return or metastasize somewhere else.
Barely cognizant, I mindlessly slide down to the far edge of the exam table and place my heels in the sock-covered stirrups before letting my legs fall open. I don't even wince from the shock of the cold metal speculum when she inserts it and cranks it to the fully opened position. The pap smear that I was dreading so much just minutes ago is over in a flash, and yet I can think of nothing but the lump in my left breast. The speculum is removed and replaced by her fingers as she checks the texture and position of my uterus and ovaries. She helps me to a sitting position, my mind swimming. Five minutes have passed since she left the room when her departing words finally register in my brain, and I repeat them aloud to propel me from my place upon the table. "Get dressed and meet me in my office."
Wasting no time, I pull on my skirt, blouse, and heels in record time. Clutching the handle of my purse in one sweaty hand, I open the door and walk towards the open door at the far end of the hall. As I approach, I watch her hand glide over a stack of papers as she quickly finishes up her notes.
Motioning for me to sit in one of the two chairs across from her desk, she smiles before opening her mouth to speak. "Michelle... the lump that I felt in your left breast needs to be biopsied as soon as possible." Seeing me shift nervously in my seat and take a deep breath, she continues, "Like I said before, it's probably just a cyst. But, it's important that we are diligent and aggressive in the slight chance that it is something more. You have two options. You can have a needle biopsy or an excision biopsy. The former is a rather simple office procedure where a needle is inserted into the mass and the fluid aspirated from it. It is the least invasive of the two procedures, and the one I'd suggest if there is no history of breast cancer in your family."
None of the women on dad's side of the family have ever been diagnosed with breast cancer, but I haven't got a clue about my maternal side. I explain to Dr. Sedwick that I have never met my biological mother and have no clue as to how to get in contact with her to find out her medical history. "Well, in that case," she suggests, "I think it would be best if we scheduled you for an excision biopsy. It's more invasive, but it is also yields a more definitive result." When I nod my head in agreement, she explains, "You would have to have it done in outpatient surgery under a local anesthetic. I will make a small incision and remove the mass along with some surrounding tissue and lymph nodes. The scar will be barely noticeable."
I feel overwhelmed as I try to process all of this information. Sensing this, Dr. Sedwick stands and walks around to the front of her desk, sitting on the edge directly in front of me. "Let's not worry about this until there is reason to worry, ok?" she begs in a calming tone. "Wait right here and I'll see when the first availability is in outpatient surgery, all right sweetie?" Before she leaves the room, she reaches around and grabs a slip of paper off of her desk, handing it to me.
I watch as she slips quietly from the room and heads to the front of the office before looking down at the paper in my shaking hands. It is a prescription for my pills and in the blank beside "No. of refills", written in black ink, is the number "12". Twelve months. I can't help but wonder if I will be alive that long.
Dr. Sedwick returns shortly, an appointment card in hand, rescuing me from my irrational worries. "Now then," she begins, sitting in her overstuffed leather chair. "You have an appointment at two o'clock on Friday. You'll need to arrive a half hour early to register." Grabbing her prescription pad, she quickly jots down a few words before ripping it off and handing it to me. I stare down at the words as she says, "That is a prescription for Valium. I'd like for you to take it an hour before you arrive to calm you down, so have someone drive you. The procedure will take approximately forty-five minutes and after a brief observation period, you'll be free to go. I will give you a prescription for some mild pain medication when you leave in case you have any soreness or tenderness. You should feel like your old self within a couple of hours, but it would probably be best to limit any strenuous activity for a few days. Do you have any questions?"
"I don't think so," I say, feeling the first inklings of a migraine headache.
Smiling as she stands to shake my hand, she says, "Great. If you do think of anything you'd like to ask, feel free to call the office." Placing her arm around my shoulders, she escorts me from the office and walks me down the hall to the front desk. My brain feels fuzzy as I dig in the bottom of my purse for my checkbook. "So dear," she says turning to leave, "I'll see you at two o'clock on Friday." Smiling weakly, I turn to the receptionist and wait for her to give me the amount of today's visit.
When I reach the iron security gate in front of the Santos compound, I wonder how I managed to make it back from Cedars. The car must have steered itself as I have no recollection of driving out of the hospital parking lot nor of the fifteen minute trip home. The throbbing in my head is becoming unbearable and tears cloud my eyes as I slowly press the seven numbers on the control panel, watching the massive gate swing open.
Parking in my usual spot, I head for the front door, hearing the roar of the vacuum on the other side of it. I am thankful to have slipped in unnoticed because I need a little time to myself. I could use some rest before this afternoon's therapy session. I hope Olga won't mind if I don't help with lunch like I promised. Hearing the vacuum cleaner shut off, I increase the pace of my steps, quickly closing the distance between myself and my room... my haven.
When I am even with abuela's room, an intense wave of nausea hits me and I run to my bathroom, clutching my mouth. Dropping to my knees in front of the toilet, I lift the lid and heave violently. My stomach is empty, so I vomit nothing but bile. My throat burning, I begin to sob uncontrollably, collapsing on the bathroom floor in a heap.
After several minutes, I stand and flush the toilet, staggering to the sink. I lean into the mirror, looking at the reflection staring back at me. Mascara has streaked a path down both cheeks and my eyes are swollen and red. The hair on the sides of my face is a matted mess. "Beautiful," I whisper.
Kicking my heels as far as I can send them flying, I change into a pair of shorts and a loose fitting pull over shirt, letting my skirt and blouse fall to the floor in a crumpled puddle. Twisting my hair into a bun, I secure it atop my head with a clip before washing my face and brushing the acid out of my mouth.
Walking back into my room, I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. On the foot of my bed, there is an enormous wooden basket labeled 'Bath and Body Works', its contents shrouded by opaque yellow cellophane paper. Beside it, there is a long, rectangular white box fastened with a yellow ribbon. "What's going on?" I ask aloud, throwing the wet washcloth in my hand to the floor and racing to the bed.
I quickly remove the cellophane to find an assortment of bath products, all vanilla, tucked inside. There are shampoos, conditioners, bubble baths, bath salts, bath beads, lotions, powders, drawer liners, and lingerie sachets overflowing from within, and my jaw falls open in shock. Replacing each item gingerly within the basket, I turn my attention to the white box to my right. Pulling open the ribbon and throwing off the lid, I am met with the glorious odor of roses - yellow roses... two dozen.
Locating the small white card tucked carefully inside the red tissue paper that lines the box, I recognize the small, slanted handwriting immediately. I read the words aloud, unable to suppress the smile that forms upon my lips, "I remembered that you liked vanilla, but I didn't know what kind of flowers were your favorite... abuela helped me out on that one. Thank you for stepping in and taking charge this weekend. - Danny" I am very nearly in tears as I repeat the words in the note over and over again. I was ready to read Danny the riot act when I finished talking to Gracie this morning, but with this simple gesture of kindness... all is forgiven.
 |
|
|