This post isn't about a van (unless you count these earrings). But it is about a mammogram. And, in retrospect, maybe it should be about one of those wonky but convenient mammogram vans, considering what transpired after I drove my Honda into the wilds of southern New Jersey. But enough speculation. Time to begin at the only place anyone ever can -- at the beginning.
I usually get my yearly mammogram in the winter, but the pandemic threw everything out of whack, which is how I found myself en route to the imaging center one sticky June afternoon. If you know anything about mammograms, then you know that you're not allowed to wear deodorant or perfume because it might mess with the results. And let me tell you, it's an entirely different -- and stinky -- kettle of fish to unleash your undeodorized pits for a stranger's examination during summer.
I had to drive about an hour away; one drawback of living toward the shore is that all the decent docs are toward (or in) Philly. And to make matters worse, I got lost. I know, I know. How is that possible in this technological day and age? All I can say is that I don't like to use GPS or Waze because I feel like it breaks my concentration. Maybe it goes back to the not one but two rounds of driving school I endured as a teenager as well as my general anxiety about being told what to do, even by (especially by?) a robot, in stressful situations. That's why I was relying on my memory and a Mapquest refresher. As per usual, I was fine until I got within spitting distance of where I was supposed to be. And that's when everything went haywire. For awhile, I drove in a giant circle, then somehow ended up in the middle of nowhere. I was also running low on gas, and there wasn't a gas station in sight. As you can imagine, by this point I was smelling pretty ripe.
I pulled over (for the first of many times) and called the office to tell them that I'd gotten "turned around." The woman I spoke to expressed mild disapproval but said that they would try to fit me in whenever I got there.
I thought about giving up and going home. That's what I really wanted to do. But then I'd have to pay for the visit, reschedule, and go through everything all over again. And that sounded about as appealing as a slug salad. It was settled; I'd make this appointment if it killed me.
So, I drove. And drove. And drove. My gas gauge dipping, my sweat thickening. My tolerance for my usually beloved CDs growing thin. And then somehow, I stumbled upon an intersection for the very street I was supposed to be on, only way out of my way and on the opposite end. So, I drove and drove and drove some more. It was proving to be the longest street ever, and I started to worry that I was bound for farm country again. Then, lo and behold, I spied my building. Well, I didn't see it so much as sense it because it's on a hill behind a bunch of trees. Which is why I drove right by it. But no matter; I could turn around. Finally, I knew where I was!
And that's how, exactly one hour late, I flew into the imaging center as wilted as a gas station salad (lots of salad similes here). Luckily, there was almost no one there. The woman behind the counter, who was the same one I'd spoken to earlier, was kind if bemused, and the tech took me right away. I was grateful.
And I was even more grateful two days later when the test came back negative. Although, oddly, the drive had always concerned me more than the possibility of cancer.
I guess the lesson here is that sometimes, even when you're lost and scared and think that your stench might make someone pass out, you just have to keep right on truckin'.
That and always take a test drive.
And always, always steer clear of slugs.
