Keeping Records

From time to time, I find myself wondering about people I used to know.

Like John and Sadie for example, who I thought about the other day. It’s weird because I haven't seen them for probably over half a century (hard to believe, I know, as I’m only around 36), and yet, there they were, as large as life, in my thoughts.

We weren't friends. They were neighbors who just happened to live in the same street as me when I was a little kid. A brother and sister, a couple of years older than me, and I did my best to avoid them. Not because they were bad people. But John always had two little canals of snot in that space between his nose and his mouth. And Sadie always looked cold.

I thought about how if I met them now, I'd ask John if he was feeling OK and give him a handkerchief. And maybe I'd give Sadie a warm hoodie or offer her a bowl of soup.

It's all completely daft of course, because as 50 or so years have passed, they will definitely not be kids anymore. Yet in the glorious technicolor of my mind, even though I'm no longer 5, John is still 6 and Sadie is around 8.

And then there's Ruth. She was in my class at drama school. Part of a clique nicknamed ‘The secretaries’, she had a big laugh, big hair, big nails, and big glasses. She openly confessed she wanted to be Victoria Principal in Dallas. She played piano and liked to get proper exam results, and remarkably for someone who was at an actual drama school, did not like it when people were ‘too arty.’

It was years after we lost touch that I met Mark, and discovered that Ruth had grown up in the same tiny wee village as him. In that village, she’d been considered mysterious and arty, which made me laugh, considering how outraged she’d be whenever there was an apparent overabundance of ‘unnecessary artiness.’

Ruth never did get to be Victoria Principal. I heard from a friend that she died. It seemed wrong. Unfair. She was too full of plans and hair and nails and laughter to have left so early.

But sometimes, the people I think about are still very much in my life and very much alive. They're just different now, that's all. Like my nephew, Ross, who as a toddler had these chunky wee legs. Now he's a big, tall, handsome grown-up man, with grown-up man limbs, and the father of a toddler who has chunky wee legs.

I find myself wondering about people when I'm avoiding thinking about other stuff, or when I'm sitting around waiting for something.

And that’s what happened this week as I had to get up stupidly early to go for a fancy mammogram and breast ultrasound. I have a check-up every year, but this year, because there was something that needed to be checked out, it was a bit more of an affair. Anyhows, there was plenty of time to sit around waiting.

I used to be scared of mammograms but I'm not now. I don't love them because frankly what lunatic does enjoy putting their boobies in a vice - but, as a mammogram literally did save my life, they have my respect.

I’ve lost count of how many I've had, but I can tell you it's enough to know to pop a couple of Ibuprofen before the appointment to deal with the discomfort factor, and to surrender to the process with the same sense of inevitability as airport security.

The only real hassle these days is the journey I go on with the mammogram tech, because there's always some explaining to do. Though I had a mastectomy on my left side, they missed one tiny wee cell that managed to develop into a tumor a couple of years later, scaring the crap out of everyone. As a result, I always have to have a mammogram on a breast that, in Mammogram tech lingo, is not actually a breast.

Last year, the tech treated me like I was some blithering idiot. And not just me, but the doctor who had ordered the mammogram in the first place. It was unpleasant and I was a bit of a blubbering mess when I complained to her manager, but complain I did. This year, I'm not going to get upset, and I'm not going to find a need to complain. I know what needs to be done and will just calmly hold my ground till it happens.

And this year’s tech didn't disappoint. Consulting the order from the doctor and shaking her head, she tells me there's been a mistake, and that they don't do mammos on breasts after the procedure I had.

I tell her to check the records.

She tells me there's no point in doing it because there's nothing to be seen.

I tell her to check the records.

She tells me I can't have been to this clinic before because this is never ever done here.

She looks at me like I'm an idiot, so I smile and ask her compassionately if the problem is that she's unable to check the records.

Indignant, her fingers click furiously on the keyboard of her computer. There is a moment when she scans the documents on her screen, looking for proof of my idiocy. Then, another moment, when having spotted her mistake, she realizes she has to change gear and yet somehow maintain her dignity. She mutters something about me being very unusual, and then we get the exam done.

Then I'm back in the waiting room, while the mammogram tech transfers the results to the ultrasound tech.

It really is stupid early in the morning, and the medical gown, for all its practicality, is no competition against the air conditioner. I shiver. And wait. And I tried to remember if John and Sadie went to the same school as me. They were in the same street, but I don't think the same school. I find myself hoping that maybe Sadie moved to a place where it's always warm, like the Maldives or Costa Rica, and that grown-up John might now sport a mustache.

When she arrives, it is clear that the ultrasound tech is the silent type. She says she does not consult on what she sees and clicks away at the area of concern on the left breast, while I lie there reflecting, how what I need from her is technical expertise rather than friendship.

Afterwards, I'm told I can get dressed and wait for the results, or I can go home and they'll call me within the hour. I opt for home.

Sitting in the car with Mark, I bitch a bit on the “what’s the point of having records if you don't actually use them?” theme. He asks if I'm upset, and I tell him, truthfully, I'm mildly irritated but otherwise fine.

And we went home, and the weather was lovely, so we took Arthur for a walk. Then we got distracted chatting to the neighbors, and I’d completely forgotten about the events of the morning until I'd come back to the house, made myself a cup of tea, picked up my phone, and noticed I had a missed call from Mammogram Central.

Suddenly I felt a bit anxious. Scared even. I don't like it when they call you straight away. That's surely not a good sign. I shook my fear off as ridiculous and called them back. A friendly wee voice answered - where had she been hiding when I was there? -and I told her I was calling about results. She asked me for some details, then told me to hang on.

And in the moment while I waited, I pictured John and Sadie, who even 5-year-old me knew needed help, but I really didn't know how. And I thought of Ruth and her big hair and big glasses and big dreams of becoming the next Victoria Principal, but who died of cancer instead. And I thought of little kids with chunky knees and how my kids, who used to have chunky knees, might one day have their own kids with chunky knees, and I want to be here to see that.

The voice on the line returned.

“Hello, Mrs Tweddle. I have your results in front of me here.”

I gulped.

‘Everything is fine,” she said, “Nothing has changed shape or grown. You're all clear for another year.”

Strangely lost for words, I say ok, and thank her, and hang up, and drink my tea.

And I think of the me that I used to be, who not so long ago had sat in this same chair looking out the same window at the same trees and the same street, drinking tea, and vowing if it could all just work out, if I could just be OK again, I would never forget how lucky I was, and I would never ever forget to be grateful.

And of course I did forget. Completely. Because the thing about appreciating life is that actual life gets in the way: People can be assholes, and the news sucks, and there are forms to fill in and deadlines to meet. I mean, it's all very well being grateful and everything, but there's still a lot of shit to deal with.

It's only when you take a minute to reflect, you can remember who you are.

You know, sometimes people show up in my mind, people I haven't seen for decades, some I'll never see again, and yet there they are, just as they used to be, appearing in my head in vivid technicolor.

And I’m good with that, because honestly, what’s the point of having records if you don't remember to use them?

Lynn

Xo

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji, I am supremely grateful. Even though there may be assholes, and the news may be a clusterfuck, I am truly grateful that you would take the time to give me the thumbs up.

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Keeping Records - Audio