Time bomb
December 10, 2016 - 9:28 a.m.

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The ultrasound technician sees me, even though I am late to my appointment.

"I bet you have to pee," she says over her shoulder, smiling.

"Boy, do I!" I say. Did I remember to drink all the water?

"Bathroom's there, when the time comes," she says, pointing down a hallway.

~

The room is dark, painted in calming colours, with inoffensive abstract paintings on the walls.

The technician pushes with her wand, pushes, pushes. The gel slides over my belly. Why is she looking so low? Isn't the kidney high, and to the back? Maybe the doctor put a note on my requisition.

"I've got a bicornuate uterus in there," I say, to break the silence as much as anything. "Can you see?"

"Yeah!" the technician bursts out, with geeky enthusiasm. "You don't see many of these!"

"Can I see?" I ask, a little shyly.

She pushes the screen around, digging with her wand, and shows me the two chambers of my uterus.

"Have you had children?" she asks.

"No," I say, looking at the full split of my uterus on the screen.

"Mmm," she says, thoughtfully, and doesn't say much else.

~

I'm on my side. Why is the lighting so low? Is it so the techs can see the screen? It's much more calming than the sterile white of doctor's offices.

She digs her wand into my side, and around the back.

She looks, and looks. Takes some screen caps. Looks some more. She makes me flip over and checks the other side, just to be sure.

"Can you see anything weird?" I ask her. I bet everyone asks her.

"It looks normal..." she says. "Okay, you can get yourself together and ready to go, but just hang out here until I come back. I just want to check with the doctor."

She leaves. I wipe off the gel and do my pants back up, push down my shirt, put my sweater on. The chair is upholstered and hard, probably stain resistant.

Long, long minutes go by. Who designs these machines? Who discovered you could get a better ultrasound with a full bladder?

The minutes drag on like nails down a chalkboard.

Are they always required to say things seem normal, if a patient asks?

The technician returns. She smiles.

"Thanks for waiting, you're good to go."

I stand.

"Your doctor will have these probably by Wednesday."

"Thanks," I say, I smile.

Outside, the first snow of the season is persistently making the roads deadlier and deadlier.

~

Wednesday comes and goes silently.

Laying in bed on a Saturday morning, the clock ticking down to my blood work appointment, the cat curled up on a corner, ignoring me.

My friend in Calgary visiting her mother, just out of cancer surgery. Her cancer happened so fast, the tumour choking the air out of her.

I rub my hand on the fatty swell of my upper hip. The ache continues. I dig my fingers, trying to get through the fat, trying to figure out if some massage would relieve the ache. Why am I so fat?

The app on my phone reminds me to log my breakfast, not yet eaten. I have been so diligent, logging my food, but none of it helps. Am I to live on mouthfuls of sand and sadness?

A message glows blue. My friend getting married in Mexico, in May.

"I hope you can come," she writes. "Will you do my henna, if you can come, like you did for your sister in law?"

I feel her hunger, her loneliness. She is drowning in her sadness, and she grabs for my friendship, like a fishing line.

I think about her wedding, her family, her baby, as I lay in bed with this disinterested cat. I think about Mexico, about books in the sunshine, about using my new sunglasses.

I think about swells of dimpled white fat, squeezing out of bathing suits.

"I will try," I write back. "I need to check my finances, and ask the boss."

I pull my electric pink duvet up to my nostrils and roll over.

Outside the snow continues to fall, muffling life, turning the world into a black and white watercolour.

Still, the clock ticks down.

.

Rosie.

Before&After