There is a stillness in the waiting room,
not exactly silence,
but a quiet that settles over chairs,
minds diverted elsewhere.

Here, women sit in chairs
with their thoughts
floating in opposing directions,
pretending to read magazines,
while their minds
wander hallways
they would rather not travel.

My name is called softly,
and my heart skips a beat,
the time has come.

I follow the routine,
changing from street clothes
into bare arms and a borrowed gown
that never seems to fit properly.

I take a deep breath,
trying to remain calm,
but no matter
how many times
I’ve done this,
I find it difficult to exhale.

The machine stands there
like a sentinel,
shining and cold,
ready to look within.

I step forward.
I position myself where I must.

There is pressure,
an unflinching determination,
as though my breast is being asked to reveal
its hidden secrets,
its truths that lie
deep within my skin and time.

I hold my breath,
as directed by the person in the shadows,
and feel vulnerable,
offering a part of myself
to a cold plate of glass
in the hope of safeguarding
my life.

Then the release.

I finally exhale in relief.
The technician smiles,
and I wrap the gown around myself,
ready to return to normalcy.

During the wait that follows,
my mind is locked in place,
where fear and hope
stand side by side,
listening for the all-clear.

Underlying it all,
there is resolve,
the quiet courage to face
the truths of one’s own body,
to choose vigilance over uncertainty,
to honor life,
even when the ground
seems to tremble beneath one’s feet.

As I walk back out
into the sunlight,
I carry a triumph,
the understanding that caring for oneself
requires a special kind of bravery
that many never see,
but every woman knows within
the beating of her heart.

Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.