I Drank From The Well Of Disbelief

I never imagined
with no family history,
years and years
of repeated mammograms
always always always,
the technician grabbing and stretching
my breasts in one merciless pull
and twist after another. As if explaining away
the violence toward my breasts,
they would all say, The doctor insists: More views.
And then there would be more views after that.
When the white-smocked woman
released my aching breasts from her grip
and the vise-clutch, the squash and flatten
torture of the mammogram machine,
I was then escorted to the ultrasound room
for the next round of imaging:
jelly-coated transducers, cold,
indifferent fingers probing
and squishing me, again.
Doctors frowned at me as they admonished:
Be sure you get your mammograms every year.
The fibrous tissue is very dense with calcium deposits.
We need a mammo every year for comparison.
But in the end,
there were only endless mammos, and fibrouscyst needle aspirations of yellow-green fluid
which the doctor tossed in the garbage,
or negative tissue biopsies
removed in the OR under full anesthesia.
Every time I walked away clean,
every time the scare dissolved into needless worry,
my resolve fortified like mortar—
thick and solid. My fantasy layered
stone upon stone to a fabled
sky-touching ivory tower.
I convinced myself that I was immune
or somehow protected.
I thought I would be exempt
among women. I thought I would be spared.
I was wrong.

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Peggy Heitmann

+ postsBio

Peggy Heitmann has published poems and forthcoming in Remington Review, The Impostor, Deep Overstock, and Amethyst Review among others. She considers herself both word & visual artist. Peggy lives in Raleigh, NC area with her husband and two cats.

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