As published in the May/June issue of Spirituality & Health Magazine

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By Barbara Neal Varma

The doctor raised the angle of my hospital bed—the better to examine me by—then deftly slipped my medical gown off my left shoulder. Her cool, expert hands gently explored around the thick swaddle of cloth and gauze on my chest.

I turned away to stare at the wall, which mercifully couldn’t stare back, telling myself to breathe, just breathe, and that this would all be over soon.

They’d awakened me at dawn, or at least the scuffling of their rubber-soled shoes on the tile floor had. Six bright-eyed millennials (best guess) in matching white lab coats standing at the foot of my hospital bed, watching me with interest.

Not disconcerting at all, especially since I looked like—well, I wasn’t exactly ready for the red carpet. I’d undergone major surgery the day before, my first ever, so I suppose there’s some adventure in that, and had spent much of the long, long night getting sick from too many hits of the pain meds. I’d finally, fitfully, caught a few Z’s when the white coats had arrived: four men and two women, one of whom was carrying a clipboard. She came forward to introduce herself as a doctor on staff making the morning rounds with her interns.

Would it be all right if they stayed to observe?

I blinked bleary eyes back at her. Observe what? Was it going to hurt? Plus—and I can’t stress this enough—I looked like crap. Whatever party she was inviting me to, I wasn’t interested. Just leave me alone to rest and heal and try and feel better. Maybe watch some Friends or Big Bang reruns on the ceiling TV and zone out for a while.

The doctor checked her notes. “It says here you had a mastectomy.”

Then there was that.

“Only on the left side,” I said, as if that made it all better.

She smiled, waiting me out.

I stole another furtive glance at the interns waiting at the foot of my bed, hoping they knew that under normal circumstances, I, too, was well-groomed and wearing deodorant, ready to take on the day. I get up around 4:30 every morning, giving myself plenty of time to wash, primp, and apply lipstick before heading out the door. I’m bringing hairspray back.

Now, lying here without a stitch of makeup on and a body part missing, I felt vulnerable and exposed. All the more reason to get this—whatever this was—over with.

“That’s fine, they can stay,” I said. The interns edged closer, increasing my heart rate. Defensively I touched my matted hair and shot them a rueful smile. “Anyone got a comb I could borrow?”

They laughed. I drew in a much-needed breath.

“So how it’s going?” the doctor asked. “Has the staff been meeting your needs?”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound rattled. “The pain meds did make me sick last night, but the nurse was very helpful.” As in she’d held my hair while I hugged the toilet.

The doctor pointed to the patient care board on the wall and addressed her students. “You’ll note they switched to Percocet and added an anti-nausea drip at 2:11 a.m.” She turned back to me: “And how are you feeling now?”

The zombies pressed in again, hungry for information. I forced a smile. “I feel like I should’ve asked for tequila instead.” More polite laughter all around, maybe even more than for my joke about wanting to borrow a comb. I was on a roll.

The doctor set down her clipboard. “And you’re still okay with everyone staying while I take a look?”

Take a look? Those three little words. That’s when it dawned on me. They were not here for a good morning chat. No, the time had come for the big reveal. The climactic, horror movie moment when I go from being a whole human being to a mere spectacle, the girl with just one boob; ladies and gentlemen, step right up!

I blinked back tears, hoping no one noticed. I thought this would be a private moment. A quiet time at home in front of the bathroom mirror while my husband of 17 years—who every day since the diagnosis has assured me he’ll still jump my bones (ever the romantic)—waits outside the door with our two cats, holding a glazed donut (my favorite) as a sweet reward for my bravery.

I know what you’re thinking. That my seeming obsession with my appearance was blinding me to the fact that my life had just been saved. Wasn’t I relieved above all else, above all shallow vanity and Barbie doll influence, to learn that the killer cells that had so rudely invaded my left breast were gone, and good freaking riddance?

Yes, yes, I was. Deeply, madly, truly.

But ever since that otherwise ordinary day when I learned I had breast cancer, I’d found such mere-mortal thoughts regarding life and death too cosmically big, too paralyzingly profound for me to fathom, much less dwell upon, lest I lose it altogether.

No, for me, it was far better to swim in the shallows, buoyed by distraction and denial, clinging to my normal routine; anything, everything, to keep my head above water and not drown in despair. Truth is, none of us has control over which monsters crawl out from under the bed during the scary-ass times of our lives. And for super-modest me, the thought of having to expose the war-torn terrain where my left breast had once been brought forth the inner demon known as Mortification.

I started to tremble. The doctor laid a steadying hand on my arm. “They can watch from back there while I do the exam.”

True to her word, the students stepped back a pace—all except the tall guy on the far right. He held his ground long enough to flash me a grin and thumbs-up sign. So random. It made me laugh.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, keeping my eyes on the very distracting thumbs-up guy. “But can we close the curtain?”

Agreed.

One of the students reached up and pulled the privacy shield around us. The doctor angled my bed and everyone scooted in. Seeing their shiny faces so up close and personal reminded me again what a complete mess I must look. And things were about to get uglier. Any second now the bandages would be peeled back, giving them a clear and unfiltered view.

Then they will all run away screaming.

But that didn’t happen. Instead, it took only a few minutes for the doctor to gently massage and prod the skin around the surgery area, leaving the bandage safely in place as she checked for heat and/or swelling, possible signs of infection.

She pulled the sheet up to cover me again, saying, “Everything appears fine. Thank you for letting us visit.” Then she and her crew soon quietly filed out.

Relieved, I relaxed back against the pillow only to hear eager footsteps once again heading my way.

I was never this popular in high school.

Thumbs-up guy appeared in the doorway. He hurriedly walked over to me and held out his hand.

Curious, I looked closer at his open palm then reverently lifted from it a small black comb still in its cellophane wrapper.

“Thank you,” I managed to say.

“You’re welcome.” His sly grin returned. “I stole it from the supplies cart.”

I half laughed, half snorted, both too loud because that’s what kind of morning it had been. “They’ll never hear it from me.”

He offered me one more thumbs-up for the road and then was gone.

I lay back and studied my prize, wanting to hold onto that peaceful, easy feeling a moment longer.

Then, clutching the comb to my one lovely breast, I finally fell asleep.