Today was my ultrasound.
I went to the Alta Bates medical center here in Berkeley. Their ultrasound and “imaging” department is – thankfully – separate from the main hospital. I haven’t been inside a hospital since I needed 40 stitches in my knee at the age of 14. I hope to keep my good record.
Standing in line to check in was the worst part of the entire experience. First, everyone in the room was obese and old. At least half had walkers and needed to be helped from place to place. It was like seeing an image of the future, being time-warped into a doctor’s office in Florida in 2038.
For anyone who hasn’t had an ultrasound, you should know that they force you to drink a lot of water and then not relieve yourself before the exam. They need a full bladder in order to see everything clearly. Great. I had to urinate so badly that I didn’t even have time to feel nervous about anything except accidentally peeing my pants while waiting.
I flipped through an “Alameda” magazine.
I tried not to stare at the older ladies, and wonder if they were there for a bone density test or a cancer screening.
Then, my name was called and I marched down an oddly pleasing hallway, with arched ceiling and dramatic lighting. Inside the exam room, there were low lights – like the kind in the room when you get a massage at a nice day spa. I didn’t even have to undress.
As she spread the warm goo on my stomach, I said, “This isn’t exactly as fun as being pregnant.”
“No, it most certainly is not,” the woman replied.
She began clicking and clacking at her keyboard slash lighting board, flipping switches and moving the probe over my lower abdomen. Then, she checked my kidneys. When she told me that she did, in fact, see something, I felt both relieved and horrified.
The good news was that I wasn’t having some sort of stress-related psychosomatic episode. In medical anthropology, we would call this “somatization”, or expressing psychological difficulties as physical symptoms.
The bad news was that there was something there.
I had to have an internal ultrasound to get a better look. It wasn’t that unpleasant, until she got near my left ovary. Then, ouch.
The absolute worst part was getting dressed and sitting down on the crackly white paper covering the exam table. Waiting. The lady performing my exam had to let the radiologist see my results, “just in case I need to keep you here for another test.”
I didn’t want to cry, but I felt like it.
I’m writing a memoir about how every close family member died before I turned 24; each one had an early death under strange circumstances. I couldn’t help but think what a fitting end chapter it would make to announce my own bout with cancer – God forbid. I have a macabre sense of humor in these moments, and I’m almost positive that I’m not alone.
Thankfully, when the woman returned she said that the radiologist’s analysis was “hemorrhagic cyst”. Follow-up appointment in three weeks, to see if it’s taken care of itself. If not, then who knows. More tests?
At least it’s not (whispered voice) cancer. (Readers born after 1980, please watch St. Elmo’s Fire for reference.)

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