Running My Luck

Last week saw me sitting in a few waiting rooms. I didn’t make any appointments – on both occasions I was summonsed.

Wednesday morning found me recalled to BreastCheck after a routine mammogram. The letter I got came with a leaflet asking that I try not to worry. That one in twenty women will be recalled and most will get normal results after further tests.

I arrive and take my seat in the waiting room counting the number of women and running the likely odds in my head that some of us will get bad news. My seat is near the receptionist desk where people are registering and confirming their date of birth. 1967, 1963, 1970, 1969, we’re all in sniper’s alley, in the danger zone.

I’m called and brought to a changing room, given a gown to wear, well more of a cape really. Together with the basket for my own clothes, I feel like Little Red Riding Hood. I hope I am not going to meet a wolf.

In the next waiting room, I sit around with my caped sisters, it’s sort of like a scene from The Handmaids Tale. I distract my mind by focusing on the beautiful wire sculpture on the wall by Susan Cuffe – Dance Me To the End of Love, inspired by the Leonard Cohen song.

On into the room for a repeat mammogram, the radiographer says they only want to do the left one, oh Christ, suddenly it feels real, they’re looking for something. I chat like I’m at a cocktail party, hoping I can cancel all negativity with mega positivity. Then I’m taken for an ultrasound, where the assisting nurse is so chatty, I suspect she is trying to build up rapport with me before they break bad news.

‘All fine there, nothing to worry about’, the doctor tells me. ‘Really??’ I’m grand apparently, these further tests have shown there’s nothing there. I start to cry. I realise I have been holding my breath since I got the letter, preparing for the worst. Bloody breast cancer has crept into too many phone calls lately, an unwelcome invader into the lives of people I love. How could I be so lucky as to escape it? Then I feel guilty for feeling lucky.

I get changed, wipe my eyes, and walk back through reception to leave – a free woman. Some of the waiting women I pass will not be so fortunate. Our temporary sisterhood is broken, I’m getting a lifeboat off the titanic leaving others to sink or swim.

The following morning, I wake with a knot in my stomach as I am already dreading the day ahead. Some weeks ago, I got a summons to do Jury Service. There is never a good time to be called, maybe if you were retired and fancied a bit of Miss Marpling. Right now, I’m busy, a good crime drama is as much sleuthing as I could face these days.

I don’t know what to wear to lessen my odds of being selected. Should I show respect for the judicial system and go like it’s a job interview? Or would a casual look say, she’s too blasé, don’t pick her? I settle on somewhere in between and head off to get the bus to town.

The criminal courts in Parkgate Street are very swish, the security check on arrival together with the high atrium ceilings makes me feel like I’m about to board a flight – I wish. I take my seat in the waiting room and attempt to read my book but The Chase is on TV at high volume and it’s hard to focus on either. After an hour, the Judge comes on the screen to tell us some details of the case. He says that if any of the parties are known to anyone called, we can have a quiet word with him. We get some further instruction and then four people’s names are called. I am one of them. My heart flips, I can’t do it. It’s a very upsetting case and I know I would be too emotional to be of any use.

I am called into court, where I make my way up to the Judge. The trick to getting out of something awkward is to tell one good conceivable excuse and leave it at that. Instead, I give him a litany of reasons why I’m not a suitable candidate. Time, sensitive disposition, menopause related brain fog, work, a cocker spaniel who can’t be left unattended for too long, I am about to go on. He stops me and with kind eyes above his facemask he tells me I’m excused. I’m flooded with relief. ‘Excused from this case or excused excused?’ I ask him. ‘You are free to go, thank you for attending but you will not be needed’. I get the feeling he’d just like me to leave his courtroom so he can get on with his job of prosecuting criminals.

As I leave the court building, I realise that’s the second time in two days that I’ve dodged a bullet. I skip down the courthouse steps like I’ve just got away with murder. The court insignia of Lady Luck is on the wall outside and I wonder how long she’ll stay on my side.