Next Time I'm Gonna Dance

Emmie Steele paced across the doctor’s waiting room. She resisted the urge to place a hand over her left breast and prod, to prove there was no need to worry.

“Mrs. Steele?”

At the sound of her name, Emmie jumped. “Yes.”

“Dr. Gibson’s ready for you.” The nurse led her along a corridor and into a small exam room. “No need to put on the gown. He’s just going over your test results.”

She nodded and the nurse exited. Emmie heard the scrape of the chart being placed in the bin on the outside of the door. The room allowed little space for pacing. She looked at the exam table and at the one chair, trying to decide which was more appropriate. Placing her purse on the floor, she sat in the chair and drummed her fingers on the narrow arms.

A tap sounded and the door opened. Dr. Gibson entered the exam room, chart in hand, the usual friendly smile on his face. “Emmie, how are you today?”

“I guess you’re about to answer that question.”

He sat on the wheeled stool and opened her chart. He glanced down at the file, then looked at her and removed his glasses. “The mammogram and ultrasound indicate a small mass.” He stood and clipped the x-ray into the light box on the wall, pointing to a shadowy area. “It’s right here. I’d like to refer you to Dr. Rosen. He’ll perform a needle biopsy and follow you from there, if necessary.”

Emmy drew in a ragged breath. She linked her fingers together to keep her hands from shaking. “Okay. Yes. Dr. Rosen performed my last surgery.”

“I know. He’s one of the best.” Dr. Gibson sat down again, rolled the stool closer and set his hand over hers. “I’m sorry, Emmie.”

She stared at his hand for a moment—long, graceful fingers, well-manicured. She nodded. “I thought they got it the last time.”