Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven? Read Online Free PDF Page A

reproductive organs again. I was pretty sure I was done having kids. Said baggage handlers meant—forget being “shave worthy”—it had been quite a while since I met anyone whose gene pool seemed like it might be an acceptable match for mine.
    Twenty minutes passed, and I was still waiting, so I sat down on a stool. A short time later, Melissa was back.
    “You know, there’s this spot on your right breast…we’d like to do an ultrasound.”
    “A spot? What does it look like?”
    “You know, we can’t say for sure. Sometimes the ultrasound will make it clearer. We can do it right now…so grab your purse and follow me across the hall.”
    My breasts hadn’t gotten so much action in years. Ten minutes later a new technician was rubbing an ultrasound wand—which vaguely resembles a small dildo—over and over again on my breast. Which is far less sexy than it sounds.
    “Well?”
    “I have to talk to one of the doctors. You just hang tight here for a little while.”
    “I’m not going anywhere. You’ve taken my clothes hostage.”
    While she was gone, I massaged my breast where she had been moving the ultrasound back and forth. I couldn’t feel anything and assumed it was a cyst.
    A short time later, I was told I could dress. The ultrasound technician walked me down the hall into the radiologist’s office where I sat in a velour-covered mauve chair.
    “Lily…Dr. Edie Grasso,” the doctor said, extending her hand. She looked about fifty, with frosted silver hair in a neat bob and horn-rimmed glasses. “We’re going to have to do a biopsy.”
    I felt like the room spun around a minute, and I put my hand on her desk—maybe to confirm it was real.
    “Crap.”
    “Yeah…I pretty much think that’s what I’d say if I had to have one.”
    I inhaled. “This is really going to ruin the ha-ha funny column I was planning to write.”
    “Sorry about that. But you know, writing about this whole experience for Breast Cancer Awareness Month may help a lot of women.”
    “True…but first you said the b-word—biopsy. Now I have to worry about the c-word. Do you think it’s cancer?”
    “You know, I don’t like how it looks, but we won’t know anything until we biopsy it.”
    I swallowed hard. “I don’t do sickness well. It’s like the one time in my life I turn into a total wimp.”
    “None of us does sickness well.” She smiled. “Come on…let’s schedule this and get it over with. It’s the not knowing that’s the worst of it.”
     
    On the drive home from the women’s center, I tried to decide who to tell. It could be nothing. It could be something. Either way, I was numb myself, and the idea of having to go through the blah-blah-blah of the mammogram, ultrasound and now the biopsy I’d scheduled, irritated me.
    It reminded me of when I got divorced. Yeah, the divorce from Spawn of Satan was bad. But having to repeat the story ad nauseum was worse, I think. People I only talked to every few months or so—like my college roomie, Margot—had to be caught up to speed. This was why my answering machine no longer said, “You’ve reached the home of Lily, David, Tara and Noah,” and instead had Tara’s then-little voice saying, “Hello! You’ve reached Mom, me and my new brother, leave a message at the beep.” No, I hadn’t murdered the Spawn and buried him in the backyard. He’d dumped me. And I hated telling the tale over and over and over again.
    I decided to discuss the biopsy with three people: Michael, of course; Joe—because the funny ha-ha column was not going to be forthcoming; and my crazy friend Ellie, a commitment-phobe worse than Michael, with four broken engagements in the past ten years. She’s tried every twelve-step program imaginable and meets an assortment of lovable, if broken men. She always thinks each new guy is “the one.” However, despite her questionable taste in men, and a growing collection of diamond rings, she’s great company, and Michael and I adore