Earlier this week I laid quietly on my side in the dark while a man collected ultrasound images of my heart. Every few minutes I’d hear a whooshing sound as various chambers and valves I can’t name went about pumping blood through my body. I imagine they’re doing the same thing as I type this right now. Over and over again.
The procedure table had a trapdoor so that the ultrasound technician could work around my braless form and access my rib cage with ease. No sooner had he delicately informed me of this than clunk, my breast suddenly plummeted towards the floor, supported by an unseen platform and lowered off stage like an overworked Britney Spears, breathless and ready for a costume change.
In the thirty-three years I’ve inhabited this particular body I’ve now seen my heart, lungs, colon, and uterus live on screen. I was braless for all of it. This was another week full of scans and hours spent on cold tables in thin gowns. My lungs have decided to act up again
and I’ve commenced my anxious spiral of doubt and fear of the great unknown, this time with the added prize pack of a fetus on board.
I typed most of this newsletter while sitting in my pulmonologist’s luxurious waiting room, where I am always the youngest human in attendance. At the OBGYN I narrowly avoided the “advanced maternal age” label by exactly one year. What I’m saying is that it’s all relative, time is an illusion, and the pulmonology clinic has a better selection of teas.
I don’t have a recipe for you this week, but I’ll share the deli options I encountered while filling my prescription at the hospital pharmacy today. I almost soothed my tired soul with the healing balm of vaguely mid-century whipped topping packaging, but decided against it. There’s always next time.