I actually do want my pink shirt back

It’s a rare work-from-home Thursday, 7:50 AM, and I’m waiting for a meeting to start. Today is my follow-up mammogram appointment. It’ll be fine, I’m sure. 

I’d planned to go in to the office today, as I always do on Thursday, and then just leave early for my appointment. But I’m at home instead, and it’s nothing to do with the appointment. My car finally went in for repairs, and I’m driving a rental that turns out to have expired tags. I learned this the hard way, when the Navy police pulled me out of line at the gate and held me for inspection and almost turned me around and sent me home but then they decided to allow me to remain on base as a courtesy, advising me politely not to drive that car onto the base again until it’s properly registered. With everyone else in the family working today, I have no other car available, so here I am. My real car is supposed to be ready tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. The rental is a very nice car, but I feel much more comfortable behind my own steering wheel. 

*****

Back to the appointment. I dressed in very casual WFH clothes this morning - an oversized pink oxford shirt that I know doesn’t look very good but that I still love to wear over black leggings. Then I remembered that I have to go to the hospital later, and thought that I should probably dress a little better because I think it’s true what they say - people will take better care of you if you appear as though you take care of yourself. I know that this is old-fashioned and bougie cringey boomer thinking but there it is: 

“I’ll tell you the truth. It’s up to you to live with it.” (William Goldman). 

*****

I was going to change, but then the morning got away from me, and it was almost time to leave, and I was going to be in a robe anyway, so I just decided to stay in the pink shirt and leggings. 

The radiologist’s office is very nice; clean and modern and cheerful with lots of art and posters on the wall. It’s all weird art; all about breasts, but it’s well-intentioned weirdness, bright and cheerful. I had the same technician as last week, and she took me to the same changing room with its tiny lockers and keys on wristbands. I wrapped myself into a robe that was fresh from a dryer, and waited for the technician. 

This time, she only needed to look at the left side, and she looked at it very thoroughly. I’m a little bruised. Then an extremely thorough ultrasound technician examined the left breast, placing quite a bit of pressure on an already-sore spot. The doctor appeared, and she and the technician carried on a sotto voce conversation as I lay in my robe. Then I heard the word “benign,” and I breathed a bit. 

So everything was OK, and I think I knew all along that it was going to be OK. There’s no other way to explain my complete lack of panic over the whole thing. The pink shirt was the only thing I worried about in a situation that offered such scope for worry, such an array of possibilities to panic over. I dropped the robe in the hamper, changed back into my pink shirt and leggings, and went on my way, with a nod to another woman sitting in the waiting room wrapped in her still-warm robe. I hope she’s OK, too.