Let Us Never Waste Our Words

I like to write about poignant times that I think many people will relate to, and one of those times occurs every year for me when I go to Dana Farber Cancer Institute in Boston for mammograms. A long while back I had a tiny problem, but I’m fine now.

There is no place so uplifting and life affirming as the lobby of this hospital. It’s brimming with hope, which vividly shows on many patients’ smiling faces.

What really moves me is the instant connection among the women in the mammogram waiting room. Though we are strangers, we sit there, of all colors, sizes and ages as one mass of terror and anticipation, each of us identifying with the other as if we are exactly alike in our thoughts. And we are.

Before every mammogram, I do superstitious things. I never imagine the doctor coming out and saying “Everything’s normal.” And that’s because I foolishly believe that if I do that I am jinxing myself. Instead, I prepare for the worst – another common protective defense mechanism. I imagine the doctor saying, “There’s a suspicious area.” I falsely figure that if I think of the worst, I’ll be better prepared. Trust me. It doesn’t work.

When I practiced psychotherapy, a patient told me, “I imagine the best outcome, because if the worst comes true, then I didn’t spoil all the time beforehand and if the best happens, it’s a win-win.” Oh – how right she was.

Before my last test, I whispered to my husband Bob while we were in bed, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said, his arms around me.

“I’m thinking crazy things.” It helps if there is someone you trust that won’t make you feel silly for the way you feel.

“None of the things you are thinking will make any difference on an x-ray.” Such a simple statement, but so true.

After my last mammogram, I waited for the technician to hopefully tell me I could go home. The door opened. “Ms. Perel?” she said. “The doctor would like a few more films.” (I haven’t had a mammogram in over 10 years when more films weren’t needed. I’m lumpy.) The woman next to me put her hand on mine. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

I couldn’t keep from shaking during the x-rays. “I’m sorry,” I said to the technician. “I’m having a hard time composing myself.”

“You’re not alone.” There are certain times when those words mean everything.

Afterward, in my hospital johnnie, I went to the public waiting room to be with Bob. In a moment, the radiologist came out. “Good news. You can go home.”

What am I trying to say, I ask myself as I write this?

When I first signed in at the hospital registration desk, the woman said, “How are you?” I said, “OK.” Then she typed something. I asked her, “How are you?" She wasn’t listening. She took my hospital card and repeated, “How are you?”

“I’m scared,” I said. She never acknowledged what I said.

I think what I’m trying to say is that although I’m sometimes a reclusive person, I need other people. I want to feel the connection we felt in the x-ray waiting room.

I want the touch of another to mean something.

I want “How are you?” to mean something.

I don’t want to ever waste my words by automatically asking that question again.