Free Sins of Innocence by Jean Stone

do have to be asleep. As for the hurry, we’ve found it’s better not to let these things wait too long.”
    “It’s not possible,” she said. “I have plans to go to Long Island this weekend.”
    “Ms. Davies”—he glanced at her chart—“Pamela—you can certainly go through with your weekend plans. But come Monday, I want to see you at St. Mary’s.”
    P.J. swallowed hard. “Please,” she said, “don’t call me ‘Pamela.’ Everyone calls me P.J.”
    “Okay, P.J.,” the doctor continued as he began scribbling on what looked like a prescription pad, “you’re to have a chest X ray and a CBC—sorry, some blood tests—this afternoon. The nurse will phone the hospital, and they will be waiting for you.”
    “This afternoon?” P.J. glanced at her watch. It was already three-thirty.
    He stopped writing and looked across the desk at her.How could a man at least ten years younger than she make P.J. feel so foolish?
    “I-I guess I’ll have to call my office. Tell them I won’t be back today.”
    The doctor nodded and went back to the note. “Or Monday,” he said.
    “We’ll have to make it Tuesday,” she said firmly.
    He peered at her over his glasses. “Monday,” he said.
    P.J. shook her head. “I can’t possibly have it done Monday. I’m expecting a big promotion at work.…”
    “Monday,” he repeated.
    P.J. felt her face flush. The rest of her body went numb. “It’s that important?”
    “It’s that important. Nonpalpable lumps can be just as malignant as those you can feel. And there appears to be some microcalcification—calcium flecks—in the lump and around it. They could pose a problem. We need to know.”
    She twisted in her chair. “Isn’t there any other way to tell if the lump is malignant—other than a biopsy?”
    “Sure. Needle biopsy. But in your case, I’d prefer an open biopsy. This was your first mammogram. You had no baseline with which we could compare it. The open biopsy will show us proof positive of what’s going on—the size, the extent.”
    Knife-happy
, she thought. “Can’t you see the size on the mammogram?” She detected a sigh.
Screw him. It’s my breast, not his
.
    “Mammograms can distort the problem. The lump may not be as large as it appears.”
    As large as it appears?
P.J. palms stuck together. “How large is it?” she quavered.
    “It appears to be about five centimeters. The biopsy will tell us for certain.”
    It was a moment before P.J. could speak. “Doctor?” she finally asked.
    “Yes?”
    “If it’s malignant, what are my alternatives? Would you do—what is it called?—a lumpectomy?”
    He set down his pen and folded his hands.“Lumpectomies have become popular, that’s true. But in your case, I’m afraid it’s not possible.”
    P.J.’s mouth went dry. “Why not?”
    “The size. To put it simply, it’s too big.”
    “But you said it might be smaller than it looks.”
    “It
might
be.” He shook his head. “I know this will be difficult for you, P.J., but we must be realistic. I rarely perform lumpectomies. I prefer the surest bet. The mastectomy.”
    There is was. The word.
Mastectomy
.
    “If you’re not comfortable with that, I suggest you talk with someone else,” he continued. “But I feel certain any competent surgeon will advise the same in your case.”
    She stared at the doctor’s hands. They were so steady, so unemotional. His palms were not sweating, his nerves were not trembling. She folded her own hands and tried to stop them from shaking. “One more question, doctor. If it’s malignant, will you take off my breast before I wake up?”
    “That’s entirely up to you. You can choose to have the mastectomy done at the same time, or wait a few days and get adjusted to the idea.”
    She stared at him. How did one get “adjusted to the idea” in a few days? Or, for that matter, how did one ever get adjusted? She felt as though she were in the middle of a news clip on breast cancer treatment. The