I focused on the grey rubber moulding that merged the stark white wall with the industrial floor. If I concentrated hard enough, maybe I could forget that I sat gowned and ready to bare my pretend breasts to yet another new face.

I heard a knock on the door and a resident cleared his throat as he entered. He sat on the wheeled stool and shuffled the papers in my file. I saw the slight tremble in his hand as he pulled out his pen and a blank page.

‘Theresa, is it ok if I ask you a few questions and examine you before Dr. L arrives?’ he said.

‘Sure’ I replied. I wanted to like him. Support his education and coax him past his nervousness like a responsible, seasoned patient should. He ruined his chances with his first statement.

‘So, you’re 40.’ He said it in a punctuated, matter of fact way.

Do I look f*&@ing 40? I wanted to scream. Instead, I gave him my best death glare and a curt correction.

‘I’m 31.’ I said.

He apologized profusely for not properly reading my chart and then went on to interrogate me for twenty minutes. I answered sullenly. Maybe if I acted like a teenager, I could reinforce my distance from middle age?

We moved on to the physical examination. I let him feel up my armpits, still sweaty from my walk over, and then he instructed me to inhale and exhale repeatedly. I tried to ignore the smell of disinfectant and latex gloves as well as the knowledge that he was straining to hear whether any cancer cells had decided to start a party in my lungs.

Finally, the door opened and my Oncologist joined us in the tiny room. My demeanour changed instantly. I asked her warmly about her recent sabbatical and joked about my non-paying, new career as a writer.  The resident looked up from his papers in surprise. He hadn’t factored in our history or the importance of good bedside manner. Dr. L and I had first met in December and she had always treated me with respect and genuine concern. She had even managed to inject humour into some of the more difficult appointments.

We caught up like old friends as we discussed my pesky cognitive limitations, my vacation induced weight gain, and the scary topic of reoccurrence statistics.

We glided from there onto the subject of my substantial (50%) risk of developing ovarian cancer, due to my faulty BRCA1 gene. She reminded me that as I get closer to 40 (which is still a long, 8 ½ years away Mr. Resident), I should strongly consider asking a surgeon to launch me into early menopause by stealing my ovaries.

On that note, when did I plan to start a family? I have heard this question before. Between the potential damage done by my chemo cocktails and the threat of this future surgery, I can understand the curiosity. But, I prefer to avoid thoughts of my aggressively spinning biological clock.

I smiled and said I didn’t know. I thanked her for her time and her advice and waited for them to both leave the room.

Unfortunately, my problem does not come with a color by numbers solution. Whispering into a man’s ear that we had better immediately decide whether we should spend our lives together because my doctors want me to get knocked up as soon as possible is not a viable option. Even if I did ask and he ran away in terror, I don’t have a good back up plan. Would I create an online dating profile advertising my shrinking baby timeline and my risk of future cancer? Even with the perky breasts incentive, I don’t think I would get very many hits.

So, I did what I do best. Got changed, walked out of the hospital, and pretended that we didn’t have the conversation. Sometimes denial is the only option