In the Waiting Room
All the nearly naked thoughts. Plus, Mean Girls and Teen Witch!
Transition: the neither here nor there. The in-between. The upside down. Moments of maybes and possibilities and potentials. Of reminders that, with patience, with grit, with hope, determination, and devotion, tout va bien se passer. Everything will be fine.
—
I lay horizontal on my back, the thin white paper underneath me crinkling when I shift. From the waist down, I am in frayed Gap jeans with chunky black combat boots, my legs crossed at the ankle. From the waist up, I am naked, my breasts bare and open to the stifled air, fighting gravity as each one flops to their respective sides. I’m not sure what to do with my arms, so I cross them, too, mimicking my bottom half.
Is it weird to have my arms crossed? I wonder. I don’t want to seem embarrassed. Because I am not embarrassed. Sure, it’s strange to be laying on my back, tits out with jeans and shoes on, but we all have them. Breasts, that is. And I’m at a doctor’s office. Or a radiology office. Either way. C’est normal.
I switch and place my left ankle atop my right, and decide to keep my arms crossed, too. It feels more comfortable. The paper crackles beneath me again like Rice Krispies after just-poured milk.
Another thought: Shit. Did I pluck the hairs on my boobs? It’s too dark in here to really see. Do doctors notice these details anyway? What about pedicurists? I always apologize if I didn’t shave before.
And then: Am I supposed to even still be lying here shirtless? I’d already lifted and pressed each breast into the giant flattening machine. A woman with a high ponytail of long braids instructed me to breathe, and then not breathe as she rotated the robot around my midsection.
I was confused, as usual. Because French. Because France. But I know that word: respire. And then: pas de respire. I looked at my left arm, held out like a T, as it lightly touched the machine while another part of it clamped down my mammary gland. There it is again, the word I’d had tattooed as a reminder just a month ago: respire. But wait, not now. Pas de respire, she said. But did she mean when the machine moved or just hovered? What happens if I breathe? Will I mess up the scan? Produce a false positive? Or is it a negative? What result am I aiming for?
That was five minutes ago, though. I am now in the adjoining room where there’s a flatscreen to my left and another machine to my right with a phallic-looking wand attached to a spiral chord akin to a giant piece of fusilli. Christmas music plays overhead. Jingle Bell Rock: the instrumental version. It feels like I’ve been lying here since Santa rode his sleigh over chimneys last Noël.
Why is it taking so long? There must be an issue. That’s it. They found something. Can you imagine? What would I do? I’m meant to move in less than two months now. Already bought the plane ticket and included two extra pieces of luggage. February 1st, flying through the Azores. It’s a bummer I can’t stop en route. No funds for it at the moment. Also, it's not the season, I don’t think? I’ve always wanted to go to the Azores, though... Shit. I can’t possibly still go back to the States if they found something. Healthcare is so costly in America. I’d have to stay here. But then if I stay here, where would I live? Would I be able to extend my move-out date? But then I’d be going through The Big C living alone, on the 6th floor of an apartment with no elevator. That won’t work for me or anyone who finds it in their heart to take care of me, Sara the Forever Single Freelancer. Maybe one of my friends would let me stay with them. Who would do that? Who even has a spare bedroom? Oh, I know. But she’s married and tends to say “no” a lot. Would my Mom come over? I wonder what I’d look like with no hair. Oh God, and no eyebrows. I always thought I had near-perfect breasts, too. Perky, 34Cs. Cleavage that could be both wide and mysterious or smushed and sexy, depending on the bra. It’s such a pain to buy bras in France. They’re elegant, but I can never remember my size and end up with pucks and tucks in the wrong places. They’re not cheap either. Why are they so expensive? I guess you do wear them every da—
“Madame Lieberman...”
The radiologist walks in, breaking my overthinking reverie.
Tout va bien pour moi. Everything is going well for me.
Oh wow, great. Thank goodness. Did he just call me Madame? Am I a Madame now? I’m not married, but I guess I did just have a mammogram...
He says he’ll now do some other test. When making the precautionary-only appointment a few weeks ago, I had to choose “mammographie bilateral et echographie.” I suppose this is the echographie. It took me a while to find a radiography center on the booking app that gave me the option to book both at one time. The simplest things are the hardest things.
But also: God forbid I pick up the phone and use my French.
But also: The simplest things are the hardest things.
He asks me how long I’ve been in France. I tell him. He asks me where I’m from. I tell him. All the while, he’s running this probe slobbered in gook around my right armpit. He’s Quebecois. A runner. He ran the New York marathon. It was a dream of his. I tell him I’m a fair-weather runner, though I don’t know the term for that in French so I butcher the phrase by breaking it down: I only run if the sun is shining. He gets it, and moves onto the left armpit, not even glancing at either breast or the possible stray hairs on them. He looks at me, at the screen, and then: Tout va bien pour moi. Everything is good for me.
Whew. That’s that then. Still leaving Paris.
I shift on the Rice Krispies. He hands me a paper towel to wipe my breasts while speaking very fast. My face must’ve expressed confusion because he repeated himself in English: “Get dressed and pay in front.” I do and leave 30 minutes later with an 8x11 folder of black-and-white scans that resemble the solar system, a receipt for €139, and a typed-up evaluation in French. Do I keep it? Shove it into one of the boxes or bags heading across the Atlantic?
—
I’m fully clothed now, but still in a waiting room. At my desk. On the metro. In a restaurant. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. How many more yoga classes with Benoit? How many more spin rides with Stephanie? How many dinners with Jess, Invader flashes with Amy, coffees with Frank? My last Hanoucca. One more Book Club. A final Soldes. What will America make of me, a Parisian for nine years? What will I make of America, a New Yorker my whole life?
Transition: Static, but not. In neutral, but gently hovering above the pedal ready to accelerate. Tout va bien.
Bon week-end, friends. xx — Sara
Clickable
“Your kid is how old???” | The New Yorker
The miracles and dangerous measures of a mature childbirth. | Slate
Speaking of, deciding to become a parent is tough. | Ann Friedman
Let’s prolong / Timothée Chalemet / week. | Vulture (3 Links!)
Bethanny Frankel is out for “reality justice.” | The Cut
Attempting to clarify anti-semitism vs. anti-zionism. | The NY Times
Public preachers and their “metier of motivation.” | The New Yorker
Are you a buy-and-return shopper? Maybe think twice. | The Atlantic
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Watchable
I’m not sure we needed a “Mean Girls” do-over, but the casting is spot-on for Regina George who is played by Reneé Rapp of “The Sex Lives of College Girls.” (If you haven’t watched that series, DO IT! ) I’m also not sure about Busy Philipps as Regina’s Mom, but I do appreciate Ashley Park of “Emily in Paris” as the French teacher. It’s been 20 years since the original movie came out (holy shit WHAATTT?) so surely we can expect a social media-fied version of this teenage dramedy. What do YOU think? Fetch, or meh?
Currently overthinking…
…packing what and when…LinkedIn status update (still!)…personal disclosures…
Souvenir: Teen Witch
The new “Mean Girls” movie got me thinking of teen flicks, which got me thinkin’ of “Teen Witch” from 1989—specifically the best rap battle ever: “Top That!” It’s hard to watch this scene today and think it’s not a joke. The outfits. The dance moves. It’s all so over-the-top and silly. Also, I don’t recall thinking they were so obviously lip-syncing, but it’s pretty clear they are. CGI has come a long way, baby. Top THAT!
I cannot tell you what a pleasure this was to read! I loved being there with you and nodding along to all the spirals of thought.
So relatable. After 14 yrs we bought and moved to another house, which we love, but the whole of packing leaving moving unpacking and creating a « home » is a process of being in between. And so happy for you that tout va bien!! Will miss you covering Pais and France, your Europe travels and your recommendations. But look forward to reading about your new adventures. Beginnings are exciting ! Bravo!!