The room was less than half full, though you could tell the clinic was super busy given that I was already 1 hour past my appointment due time, and still I sat reading my book. I had scheduled my appointment late in the day so I could work a full day then head over. The sky outside was starting to fade into dusk, and I was feeling the tiredness of my work day settle in. It had been a doozie and I was grateful to be in a quiet waiting room. Despite the abundance of available spots in the room, she gently sat down next to me on the love seat. I placed her age to be in her early to mid 80s. Not the usual patient I see in this waiting room. Despite her age and while still the usual coarse texture of grey, she had endearing 2 inch long rusted-blond curls of hair going in 20 different directions, yet gently swept over to the right in the front adding a controlled appearance. She kept pushing them over with her hand as she sat. She wore a grey wool sweater vest over a similarly colored striped turtle neck shirt and beige polyester pants.. She carried a small handbag which now sat balanced atop her crossed legs. Her fingers were aged with arthritis and age spots. Her frame was frail and petite, but she carried an air around her of being totally together and independent. I could see she felt either rushed or nervous as she kept glancing around the room. We likely looked very out of place sitting next to each other as we carried almost no similar traits. Or so I thought.
She started her dialogue with me almost immediately.
"I almost never found this place. They keep moving clinics around here. I hope I'm still on time."
"Yes, m'am. It is a large campus for sure, but I think you are right on time as they seem to be running behind. Are you new to the breast clinic?"
"Sort of. I'm "Jocelyn Morreou" (changed of course). Everyone always mispronounces my name. Are you here to see Lead Plastic Surgeon, too?"
Nothing about her, other than the fact that she was sitting in a breast clinic, alerted me to a diagnosis. She had no tell-tale signs of bulging drains. Her hair was in tact. Her coloring spectacular with her carefully painted rosy cheeks and mauve lips. No caregivers with her at the appointment. I would soon (in a less than 15 minute time span) learn from her that she was single or widowed and in her early eighties.
"Yes, Mam. I've been coming to this clinic for 3 years now. I am here for a followup after a surgery to replace my breast implants. "
Her eyes got wide and she looked up at me and and said (while simultaneously grabbing both breast and pushing them up) "Me too! These things have gotten so hard and they won't move at all!"
It took everything in my power not to bust out laughing, but I was a total champ at keeping my composure. "I had a mastectomy 12 years ago and have had no problems at all until now. These things have become all hard and they won't move around a bit. They just sit there hard as a brick and uncomfortable. (Reminder, she's still manually holding her boobs up and moving them around as she talks to me.) She then exclaims with the passion of a 20 year old 'Who wants hard breasts?!?!' They have to be replaced, I am sure of it. But I hope this will be an easy surgery. I live alone now. I recently downsized my house and moved to this quaint little neighborhood."
Ok, so here I sat picking up on all of the newly discovered similarities between me and Ms. Jocelyn. I couldn't believe that God had plopped this very endearing lady in her eighties down on my sofa in this waiting room. I told her about my current state of downsizing houses and having just recently undergone the exact same surgery for the exact same reason that she was about to be confronted with. I spent a lot of time detailing recovery and comforting her that she didn't have a thing to worry about. She would love the outcome. Recovery would be quick and her family could come help her out. I was in the middle of asking her to tell me more of her story (I got all of the great details. she had early breast cancer when they found it in her 70s and she had decided not to do chemotherapy, but rather go with mastectomy and hope for the best. She reminded me that "quality of life matters, you know! Always get a second opinion when they push you to chemo.") when we heard her name being called for her appointment. "See, they said it wrong. But she gave it a good try!" We squeezed each other's hand and off she went. I gave myself a chuckle when I thought about a lady in her mid 80s worrying about what her breasts looked like. That right there is a lady with some spunk! And a gentle reminder that no matter our age, we all are women and have opinions of ourselves.
There I was sitting alone again on the sofa thinking how much she may have unknowingly needed to have chosen the seat next to me as who else in that room other than me would have recently had scar tissue surgery and could provide perspective, but more importantly how much I had benefited from her seat selection. If only I could hear all the stories sitting in that room. What a better person I become by knowing each of them. With a smile on my face, I picked up my book and resumed waiting my turn.
"Ms. McCollum?"
As a reminder for you, Lead Plastic Surgeon had told me it would take a month or more for the breast to fall back into shape after surgery, so he had not yet seen the outcome of surgery since my last appointment had been only 2 weeks post op. I had checked out the goods the night before, for the first time since my last appointment, and was amazed at how I now had symmetrical imposters! It worked! And the scars had already begun their fading process. I could not have been more please with the results, well, considering this was surgery #6. So when I presented the canvas to the artist he didn't say a word. He simply lifted his hand in a high five (which I happily gave) and I responded with requesting a low five as well. He said "hold on, I want my nurse practitioner to see this." (What?!?! Community show and tell?). He said he never would have dreamed it turned out so well after my complications since mastectomy and she wouldn't believe it. So we had a community show and tell, and I simply let it happen because I at least owed him that, right? As I was getting ready to leave and relishing in the fact I would have no more breast clinic appointments to schedule, I grabbed his arm.
"I met Ms. Jocelyn in the hallway. She started rejecting her implant with scar tissue 12 years out. Do I need to worry?"
"Sally, let's take this day by day. Don't give it a second thought."
"Well, I won't really rest until April. That is the time point for when I had cellulitis after surgery."
"Yes, I know. Day by day, ok?"
"Ok, just know this that when I walk out this door, I don't plan on ever seeing you again, ok?"
"Then give me a hug and be gone. We've come a long way haven't we?! You were a surgical feat for me."
As I left the appointment and walked down the long hallway (it was after hours and the normally super busy corridor somehow felt deserted), I found this incredible smile on my face as I walked further way from the clinic. We had done it! Too bad Ron wasn't there with me in the hallway. I literally would have grabbed him and swung him around as the tears rolled down my cheek." Another Breast/boob/imposter surgical chapter triumphantly closed. How can I not be beaming? God is so good to me.
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