Better Than Ever!
Dr. Inappropriate and the Breasts of a 30-Year-Old
The Albuquerque surgeon’s office dripped with all the worst breast cancer décor: tiki lounge streamers, ribbons, and a scroll: “You became a survivor the day you were diagnosed.”
There were flamingo-shaped paper dolls, recruiting flyers for knitters who might want to knit “prosthetic knockers,” and a homemade poster which read, bafflingly, “Women are like angels. Even when you break our wings, we fly!”
Story by Ariel Gore, an excerpt from “Rehearsals for Dying.”
Like always, the staff warned us to arrive early, even though we all know the surgeon arrives late.
The nurse’s aide said, “Okay, Dee-ana. Still not Jewish? Still no family history?”
Deena said, “Still Jewish. Still have a family history.” She glanced at me and winked, but these questions got less funny every time we heard them.
We waited.
Another medical assistant came in, a white lady with long gray braids. She carried a pink yoga mat. Were we going to exercise together? A gold lotus pendant gleamed from her chest. She made doe-eyes at us across the room.
“How are you?” she said. Three times.
Finally the surgeon came in, big tits and fake eyelashes. She sat down and wheeled her little stool right up to Deena, waaaaay too close.
I bit my lip hard because I wanted to give the surgeon a chance, but the sign on the wall about broken wings had been that chance, now that I thought about it.
“I have to examine you,” she insisted, staring Deena down.
Deena ran her fingers through her crew cut, did as she was told, opened her flannel shirt, and lifted her sports bra.