You Are Not Welcome Here

I have a lump
It sits there taunting my fingers as I palpate it one more time.
I don’t own it, but it is there without invitation or permission.
I assess its shape, it seems well circumscribed . . .
It is deep in the tissue, butted up against my muscle —
Don’t get cozy — you are not welcome here.

I have a lump
A cursory history and examination . . .
Exposed in a room my mounds of tissue
Exposed is my vulnerability, little connection is made to my fear.
Small as it is, this lump has the ability to nag me.
I close it back in the shadowed recesses from which it came.
You are not welcome here.

I have a lump
I make the drive, alone, to the magnanimous machines that will look
With radiographic eyes inside my protective skin.
Exposed one at a time, pressed, pushed, flattened, and captured
In more views than a Hitchcock movie.
I wince at the pain but do not complain.
I told you, you are not welcome here.

I have a lump
The Cosmo women looking at me from the pages all have breasts.
The Mamm Magazine peers at me from the rack at the Breast Center.
I put it back on the shelf —
I do not want to confront those women within the pages
Sans hair;
I don’t want to read about the survival rates of pre-menopausal women
Who found a lump.
I am lonely and fear pokes its ugly head around the corner of my mind.
Go away. I am trained for this.
You are not welcome here.

I have a lump
And all the preparation in the world does not prepare me for
This hole in my wholeness and the hollow sense of being out of control.
The role of the patient is not mine.
I did not audition for it.
I do not own it.
It is not mine, nor do I want to give it to someone else.
It’s a part we all play, however,
Someday.
But for now, good-bye. I told you . . .
You are not welcome here.

• Laurie Dunn, MPAS, PA-C
• Physician Assistant Program