The see-your
breath temperature is a pleasure after the too hot summer as I wait for the
pre-dawn bus to take me into the city. When it comes it is filled with a few
businessmen trying to beat colleagues into the office and high school kids on
their way to the Lycée founded by Jean Calvin 500+ years ago.
The
curriculum is modernized from the old Latin, Greek, Bible and Hebrew of Calvin’s
time. One sun-bleached blond teenager sits in the aisle, her notebook on her
lap finishing her math homework by copying answers from long exercises onto a
single sheet. I’m always impressed by the notebook system of French schools and
how neat the work is.
The lake is
changing colour from dark gray to light gray as the bus passes it. The Jet d’Eau
is not on yet.
I’ve
allowed time to try a Pumpkin Spice Latté and pumpkin muffin at Starbucks before
my appointment. I read the Tribune de
Genève, finding the plans to
substitute train service in some areas with buses and the story of a robber who
dressed as a bank employee complete with badge allowing him code access,
interesting.
“24 juillet
1942” I tell the receptionist at La Maternité. I know the drill. I’m a
birthdate more than a patient.
“Follow the
yellow line, first floor.” She hands me a sheet of labels coded with my medical history.
I don’t
have long to wait.
“Pourquoi six mois?” The
technician asks after telling me to strip to the waist.
I
tell her
that I’m not taking the after-cancer medication, which is why I allow my
breasts to be pressed into rectangles twice a year as a compromise. I
don’t
regret my decision. My joints no longer ache and morning sicknesses at
my age
was unwelcomed. The survival stats with my type of cancer, my stage, my
treatment were not that different for those that followed the plan and
those that did not.
The
pressing over the doctor tells me I’m clean. Although I had a thermographie
last month telling me the same thing, I’m relieved. A routine worry niggles at strange times.
On the way
home I get off a couple of stops before mine to walk by the vineyards and watch
the pickers with their metal baskets on their backs. The vendage is far from completed with many of the vines still heavy
with grapes. A truck heaped to the brim with purple fruit is parked to the side
and one of the pickers adds his bounty to the pile.
The lake is
now in full colour. The leaves are yellowing, not the brilliant colours of my
native New England but beautiful.
It is 10:45
and each moment of my morning has been filled with tiny delights and I’m so
grateful for the Swiss medical system. I’m so grateful for being alive and able
to be surrounded by so many sensations.
