A few weeks ago, the admin assistant, who anyone who works in education knows is basically the mayor of a town, came to me. “Hey, the mother of a child in kindergarten is a doctor, and she is offering free mammograms, but only to women over 40, and well, you are one of the two people here who fit that, so . . .”
My first instinct was to brush it off, because I couldn’t possibly be one of the two oldest women on campus, and I didn’t need such charity. Additionally, I identify as a 25 year old and I consider myself immortal, as I think most people do. Something contradicting that mindset just . . . doesn’t fit into my agenda. With what sparkly gel pen would I write that appointment in to my weekly planner?
Health care is free in Guatemala so, if I had something wrong, I’m sure I’d feel it, and then compel myself to visit the doctor (my least favorite place in the world) and take care of my health (my least favorite thing to do) right?
Luckily, in this case at least, common sense beat Rachel sense and I made the appointment. For shizz and gizz.
It was meant to be a fun afternoon, a weird adventure, a lark. The clinic is about 20 minutes away via chicken bus, in a town that’s much bigger than ours. With 31,000 people, they have a proper town square and clock and Lil Caesar’s pizza. I convinced two friends to come with me for the thrill of it all, promising a cool sunset view, cemetery, and stoplights. I have done extensive chicken bus travel, back when I backpacked Central America, but it was their first time, which was special and thrilling.
We took the chicken bus up the steep mountain roads, ears popping, new sights seen, just a little scary. We parted ways at the town square, promising to meet at the cemetery later, after my appointment. Because I was sure it would be a quick, fun visit, for the thrill and the content of it all.
I spent about an hour waiting in the clinic for my name to call, casually watching but totally invested in the terrible telenovela on the screen, eyes watering from the heavy jasmine-scented incense in the room. My name was finally called, and I was led into a storage room which also had the necessary mammogram equipment.
I undressed, then was lifted and shifted and smashed and smooshed into the mammogram machine. It’s an altogether miserable experience. Then I was led to a smaller room for a closer look with jelly all over my chest and an ultrasound machine with the doctor who is also the aunt of my student, which I refused to let be awkward. So I just kept chatting away. But she was zooming, and adjusting, and sliding over and over the same spot, and she finally said “you don’t feel that? You can’t feel that?”
“Um…” I hesitated. “Should I feel something?”
Her English wasn’t great, we were doing this all in Spanish, there’s always a chance to misinterpret.
“Well, yes? It is…not small. I’m surprised you hadn’t felt it before,” she replied.
That is like, not what you want to hear? Ever? From someone examining a cancer-prone body part that your family has a history of while you’re living in a third world country on beans and dreams for income.
“Oh. Cool. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcooolcoollll.”
More zoomies over my boobies. More gel. More frownie faces at the screen. Snap Snap Snap goes the computer picture machine until –
“You can get dressed now. We will Whatsapp you in a few days.”
“Oh. Oh. Cool. cooooolcoolcolcooclcoloclcooooool . . . ”
I got dressed slowly but quickly and jetted out to find my friends at the rendezvous I had suggested – the cemetery.
“What took you so long?” they asked, sitting on the bench outside, as I ran up to meet them, breathless and a little teary and unsure.
“So . . . turns out I have a thing. Ah, I . . . I have a thing.”
Cool. Coooool. coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool.
To be continued . . .
Sunglasses Always Fit 
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