Every great television drama has its comedic moments- an intense scene that ebbs and flows with just a dash of  slapstick thrown in so that we can weather the emotional storm.  So why should breast cancer be any different?

My surgery was scheduled, my leave from work had been approved, my family was set to come- now all that was left was…the waiting.  In the meantime, I remembered that I was due for my yearly skin check with my dermatologist.  Ironic isn’t it- the girl freshly diagnosed with breast cancer makes and KEEPS all her doctor’s appointments- like clockwork!!  I had a skin cancer removed over ten years ago and had been diligent ever since in keeping my annual check-up with my dermatologist.

That morning when I got out of the shower I suspiciously looked my skin over.  One mole in particular looked like a renegade to me.  I peered closer into the mirror.  Then I got out my five times magnification mirror which no woman over 45 should own!  The mole didn’t look right to me.  My palms grew sweaty and my mind started to race.  “Not only do I have breast cancer- but there’s something going on with my skin too.”

I threw my purse into the car and headed toward Gahanna for my appointment.  (Insert full symphony music here- with a crescendo as I exit the freeway)  I had just turned right and was on the street of my dermatologist’s office when I saw it in the mirror-  a flashing red light atop a black and white police car.  “Well, that’s strange- he must need me to get out of his way so he can pull someone over.”  Then (insert audience gasping here) I realized he was pulling me over.

Somehow I managed to find the berm.  I hit the button to put the driver’s side window down only to find that my shaky fingers had hit the button for the back window.  I tried again because I never give up easily and success- I was looking into the eyes of a full-fledged police officer. (Insert ripples of laughter here.)  And then the words that still ring in my subconscious:  “License and Registration Ma’am.” 

Some people have very organized glove boxes- alas I am not one of them. My fingers stumbled around an old grocery list, an expired coupon, and eureka- the registration.  I retrieved my license from my wallet and handed them over.  The police officer looked at my offerings and said, “Is there a reason you’re speeding today Ma’am?”

(Insert full-on orchestral climax here)  The floodgates opened and I held nothing back.  I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer, my surgery was next week, Friday was my last day at work, I found this strange-looking mole this morning in my mirror and was on my way to the dermatologist for a skin check.  Maybe I had skin cancer too.  (All this said with the appropriate gasping sobs)

I would like to say that he looked at me with compassion, but I think it might be hard to look compassionate when in uniform.  Instead, he looked me square in the eye and said, “I’m sorry to hear that ma’am.  Let me run your license and registration.  I’ll be right back.” After what seemed like an interminable amount of time (3 minutes?) he approached my car.

 “Mrs. Hardin, how many tickets have you had over the years?”  A quiet little voice  (was that me?) whispered, “None.”  “Well, we’re not going to start today by giving you one.  Would you like me to follow you to your doctor’s appointment?  Would you like to call your husband maybe?”

I wiped my now running nose with the back of my hand like a first-grader, and mustered up as much dignity as I could by sitting up a little taller in my seat.  “No thanks- I’m okay.”  This kind public servant reminded me to drive carefully and then he wished me well.

A few minutes later I was sitting in the exam room when my dermatologist walked in.  “How are you today?” he inquired innocently.  (Insert canned laughter here.)  “Oh, I’m fine, just fine.”   And just for the record, so was my mole…