This year when I went for my mammogram, I barely took a seat before I was ushered into the exam room. I changed, got squished and was on my way. For years I went to Swedish American, now UW. I wrapped the gown around my middle, held it close and sat down with other women. Some of us read a book. Others watched the TV. Sometimes we spoke.
Those days we waited for our results with some dread. We shared our stories and offered each other verbal hugs. Sometimes we offered sympathetic silence. We changed and left quickly. Most of us relieved.
I’m reminded of the story of The Handless Maiden as told by Martin Shaw in his book Smokehole. Her father struck one of those deals that offers riches in exchange for what turned out to be his daughter. To keep the deal, he lops off her two hands. She fades into the forest, marries the king, gives birth to his baby. She is exiled again but finds the Wood Sisters.
“From the moment she sat with them and powerfully recounted her story, it was clear she had found a new home in the exact place that she was most terrified to go. A great wonder happened. A joy beyond reckoning. She started to grow her hands back” (109 -110).
Women gathered, even if for a few minutes, waiting for a test, are a community, that can encourage, that can comfort. This year I missed that.
I’m Katie Andraski and that’s my perspective.
