Sunday, July 17, 2011

The Question

Daria is doing the ultrasound, the jelly cool, and I squish my neck around so I can see one of the cysts. It looks gently aquatic, like the wandering starfish at the Seattle Aquarium, but she wants me back in position. Suddenly I have to know why every ultrasound I’ve ever had has been done by a tech with a Slavic name.
     “In my home country,” Daria answers mournfully, “I was a doctor. In offices there we did our own ultrasounds.” She’s stiffening up; she knows I know she knows if it’s cancer.
     But I’m so polite. I don’t ask.



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  2. Ah, wonderful, and, of course, terrible. K.

  3. I'm so glad it all came out well. I went through the same thing a few years ago. Sad for the Tech. I remember helping a Vietnamese MD in the 70's when they were refugees. The facility I nursed in hired him as a grounds keeper. So very sad.

  4. a powerfully written little moment. you capture so much here.


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