Knitting, Mammograms, and Meeting Jesus

Finding Grace in Unexpected Places

I need to buy new bras.

I’ve been told to take off my shirt and bra, store them in a tiny locker, and put on a navy-blue cotton gown that ties in the front with the delicacy of a hospital-issue bathrobe.

My bra has seen better days. It’s not nearly as pink as it once was. But at least it’s clean. Ever since Allen took over the laundry, nothing piles up anymore. Okay—maybe it took me two years to talk him into a new washer and dryer, but now he runs them like a boss.

I join other women in the small lounge. They’re all clad in the same navy-blue gowns, each of us pretending not to notice how ridiculous we look. No one makes eye contact. I pull out my knitting.

That sparks comments. It always does.

Within minutes, the six of us are old friends. We chat about kids, compare notes on the impersonal and slightly painful procedure known as a mammogram, and wonder aloud how men might handle one. We assure each other the odds of breast cancer are slim.

I squirm a little. There was “something” in my first one last week that prompted this follow-up.

“Since we don’t have a baseline,” the technician had explained, “you’ll probably get a call to come back.”

She didn’t scold me that it’s been more than twenty years since my last mammogram. But when you’re caring for a chronically, often critically, ill spouse, your own health tends to slide somewhere between “replace furnace filter” and “learn to crochet socks.” I know it shouldn’t be that way, but it is.

I’m called back. Parts of my body not used to being squeezed and flattened are somehow molded into a medieval torture device invented, I’m fairly certain, by someone named Igor. The technicians are kind, but still…

At least I’m not wearing the slightly dingy bra.

I really need to buy some new ones. Maybe on the way home.

Back to the lounge I go. Most of my new friends have gone, replaced by another set of women in navy gowns. I pull out my editing work in progress: a study on Psalm 91 for spousal caregivers. Because no one knows that world better than I do.

“What are you doing?” a woman asks.

I explain. She wants to know when it’ll be published.

I shrug. “Eventually,” I say.

At least after I buy new bras.

I’ve been told to expect a two-hour wait while the radiologist reads the films. I came prepared—book, knitting, writing.

Women leave. Women come.

I remain.

A technician appears again. “The doctor wants an ultrasound.”

I make a face.

“It won’t hurt,” she says. “Just a little pressure.”

This time I’m taken to a room with a bed. The technician uses the wand—or whatever it’s called—to examine the suspicious area. When she finishes, she tells me to sit up and wait.

She’s back a few minutes later. “Just one more. The doctor’s a little concerned about that one spot.”

I climb back onto the bed. Open the gown again. The machine beeps. And beeps. And beeps.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” she says.

I sit in the chair, my stomach growling. Three hours. I’m not worried—really—I don’t have a family history of breast cancer.

But as I sit there, I ask myself the question:

Am I ready to meet Jesus?

Yes. Definitely.

Except…well, my autistic adult son still needs to learn more independent skills. Maybe even get his own place.

And I need more time with my older two kids.

And I’ve been looking forward to my new deck being built.

And I have to finish the Psalm 91 study for spousal caregivers. There’s a woman in the little lounge waiting for it.

And I need to buy new bras.

“You can go,” the technician finally tells me when she returns. “The doctor thinks it’s benign, but she wants to see you again in six months.”

I breathe in relief. Thank You, God.

So I still have some time before I meet Jesus.

I really need to get those new bras.

Reflection Question

We all have our “buy new bras” lists—those everyday things that seem more urgent than eternity. What’s on your list—and how might God be inviting you to trust Him with it?