When the leaves turn golden and begin to fall, I remember that it is that time of year to have my annual check-up. Over 15 years ago, I was told I had ovarian cancer. My son Sacha was only three weeks old at that time, and Chelsea was a toddler. To make matters worse, my French was terrible, and the doctors didn't speak a word of English.
Everyone knows someone who has had cancer. But when the doctor labels you with that dreaded word, it brands you, making the world look like a whole new place, more beautiful and frightening.
It has been years since the letter "C" placed itself on me. I am cured. The story is far behind me, and the memory isn't as haunting as it used to be. Nevertheless, when the leaves turn golden, autumn arrives, and a chill comes into the air, I find myself somewhat nervous. The mammogram, the scan, the blood test, the "How are you?", and the memory of that first test comes to the physical, t to the surface.
A week ago, the nurse came to my house to take my blood (yes, they do that in France). The results were ready, and I went to see my doctor. Besides being low in iron, my blood counts were a bit off. I think it is a symptom of the last year—nothing serious.
My doctor added another test. As she talked about it, I realized I did not understand what she was saying. One word kept coming up: "selle." It sounded like sel, which is "salt" in English.
I was confused and asked her in French, "Sel, is it a test to measure my sodium level? What does it show?"
She looked at me perplexed and said, "No, not really, but it is a test to make sure you are not bleeding inside."
Confused, I stammered and repeated her words, "Bleeding inside?"
She reassured me that she didn't think I was bleeding inside, but she wanted to rule out one of the reasons that might cause my iron to be as low as it is…just to be sure that nothing serious was going on inside me. The doctor quickly added that the pharmacist would explain how to take the test.
The doctor said, "With your history, we need to be extremely mindful."
The doctors always say that to me— "with your history." At that point, I bow my head and follow their lead. I went to the pharmacy to get the selle test.
When the pharmacist brought out the test, I asked her how I was to take it. She seemed embarrassed but opened the package and told me to put a little selle on each square. She added that I was to do this three days in a row.
I was REALLY confused… so I asked, "Can I use any type of sel=salt?"
She turned red but added, "Use whatever selle you have."
I thought out loud, "Gee, I guess I can use my lavender sel=salt?"
She laughed like it was a funny joke that I had made, "It sure will smell better." I looked at her like I was missing something but smiled anyway. She went on to say that when I put my selle on the three squares, I was to call the number on the package, and a nurse would explain the next step."
When I arrived home, I showed French Husband the test and told him how strange I thought it was that I needed to put sel=salt on the two little squares over the next three days. I added, "I guess the sel=salt absorbs overtime on the paper and then they mix my blood on it? I don't know why I have to do it myself? Why don't they have those sel=salt squares made up in advance?"
French Husband grinned. At that point, I knew I had misunderstood something BIG TIME. I felt red coming to my face.
He said, "Corey, Corey, Corey… "Selle" is not salt; it is a medical word for poop."
Yes, I am still learning French, and I feel like shit.
Photos: Antique French salt shakers. I now know why I have collected them over the years.
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