A routine examination at a medical check-up offered by the company I work for.
A breast examination by the doctor. The ominous words delivered casually:
“There’s a small lump here. It doesn’t feel like cancer, but we’ve been told to get every lump seen by a specialist. You’re on the company’s medical scheme aren’t you? Here are their details. Why not give them a ring. ” And before I could protest, she added, “I’ll be sending letters of referral to the consultants today.”
I went to the gym 3 times a week. I was slim. I didn’t smoke. I drank in moderation. I wasn’t “old”. I couldn’t have cancer.
I hummed and haaed over whether to call the consultants, and then over the choice of consultant. They all had the same number of letters after their names. In the end I liked the smile on the face of the consultant I selected.
The weekend. I found it hard to keep from worrying. I had two friends who were healers. They read my energy and said they couldn’t feel the energy of the cancer. I was buoyed up by their conviction.
(Well, when people are vulnerable, they grab at straws.)
The following week. A Monday. I arrive at the one-stop breast centre.