"You're not very gracious, are you?" he said, flashing a wry smile from his perch near the ultrasound monitor, next to the exam table on which I lay. I felt a pang; I don't like to think of myself as ungrateful. I hadn't shown much appreciation when he declared that the wound from a biopsy performed a few months earlier had healed well, that everything looked fine, and that I could now go a whole eight months, as opposed to six, or three, before my next round of precautionary imaging.

He peered into the monitor like an artisan pleased with his handiwork. I recognized that look. How many times had I smiled into a computer screen at the final paragraph of an editing or personal writing project? 

For that matter, how many times had I gazed with satisfaction on the face of a sated, slumbering infant? Or on the crew of happy kids seated around our festive, food-laden, Shabbat table?

I knew what it was to do a job well. Why couldn't I thank the radiologist for doing his?

For over a year I'd been blaming the good doctor for a chain of circumstances over which neither he nor I had any control. Rationally, I couldn't hold her responsible, but feelings aren't rational. To me, this accomplished, dedicated, and well-meaning professional was a malevolent link in the chain, a locked clasp keeping me trapped in a vicious cycle of testing, wasted waiting-room hours, and painful probings of tender flesh. 

A sense of overkill had sparked my resentment. "It's almost certainly nothing to worry about," they told me after a routine mammogram yielded a finding. So I didn't worry. I dutifully went for follow-up imaging, then a fine-needle aspiration biopsy, and then a vacuum-assisted biopsy. Each time, I was assured of the necessity of further testing for this thing that was almost certainly nothing to worry about. 

During this period of repeat imaging and testing, the mothers' WhatsApp group for my daughter's class was frequently abuzz with lice alarms—a mundane but annoying problem in Israeli elementary schools. The alarms propelled me into action.

"I haven't had lice in ages! I'm not itching! Why do we have to spend all this time checking for lice that aren't there?"

The analogy wasn't lost on me. I could laugh at my own illogic, but the resentment festered.

Then there was the pain, which I hadn't expected.

I went into the first biopsy, the fine-needle aspiration one, assuming the area would be numbed before it was punctured. 

As Felix Unger said, never assume. (At least, Google beforehand.) To my surprise, the radiologist assured me that an anesthetic wasn't worth the trouble. "The injection might cause more pain than the biopsy, and the procedure will be over before you know it." In the biopsy needle went.

The procedure was not over before I knew it, and it was memorably painful. "Almost done," he kept saying. "Almost done."

Looking online afterward, I found that, indeed, FNA biopsies aren't thought to cause much discomfort and are usually performed without anesthetic, for the reasons cited by my radiologist. He’d followed protocol; what was wrong with me? Was I more sensitive than most to the pain of this procedure? Were other women stoically underreporting their pain? Did my expectation of zero pain make the reality seem worse? Was protocol fallible?

The vacuum-assisted biopsy I underwent a few months later was also quite painful, despite the local anesthetic administered beforehand, per protocol. Maybe it would have been worse without the drug. I have no way of knowing. Subjectively, it seemed as though the painkillers had no effect. But, again, maybe my expectations were unrealistic. I did leave the facility with a vast, red-purple bruise, and a red-purple anger to match.  

Once more, parenting situations gave some perspective.

"My ponytail's too tight!"

"The bath's too hot!" 

"I can't drink that, it's gross!" 

As a mother, I generally assume I'm being gentle, taking proper care, mixing the antibiotic with adequate juice to mask the flavor. I follow protocol, check boxes; but is it enough? The child might be more sensitive than most. Protocol might, conceivably, be fallible. I might be less gentle than I think. The kids sometimes tell me so. Are lapses inevitable? What do they mean?

Beyond the sense of overkill and pain, the biopsies returned me to old and cherished motherhood scenes from new, disturbing angles. 

They cast a harsh light on my warm and fuzzy breastfeeding memories—the animalistic blur of the early days, the skin-to-skin intimacy against cushioned, soft-upholstered backgrounds. The positions. Remember the positions? The ones you don't learn from the instructional photos in breastfeeding manuals, or from over-engineered "nursing recliners," but from the possibilities suggested by your everyday routine and habitat. You splay inventively across beds and sofas, curl into odd corners. You accumulate small, quotidian, manageable experiences in your paired quest for comfort, satiety, and release. 

All of that is suddenly and jarringly juxtaposed with the enforced, puppet-like positioning and repositioning of your vulnerable flesh on a paper-coated slab.

Which is the real you? 

Your prior acquaintance with those flickering screens, gelled slitherings, and metallic incursions came from the world of obstetrics where it was all in the service of a good cause. A desired product. You were a partner in the assessments, monitoring production. You peered eagerly into the screen, nodded at explanations. You were invested. Now, you are not invested. At best, you break even. At worst, you divest.

Your body is a source of interest. To others. The focused intensity. It's not just the memories of the births, how the midwives ministered. You're also remembering how you have ministered, and still minister, to others from birth. It should be you standing above, gazing down, scrutinizing, setting to rights. What are you doing down there? When did the roles reverse? 

The ultrasound wand on its cord. It used to link you to the fetal image, as though the baby had been born but was still umbilically attached. Now you are the one attached; but to whom? 

Who are you?

When my birthday rolled around last year, my daughter got creative. Instead of the usual homemade card, she handed me a scroll detailing and thanking me for all sorts of things I do as a matter of course. Who knew buying a particular kind of fuzzy pajama, or making pancakes in a particular way were accomplishments a nine-year-old could be impressed by?

I read through the scroll in deep embarrassment, feeling as though I'd been handed the diploma of a stranger. Who was that paragon? I hugged my daughter and replaced the scroll in the beautifully ornamented box she'd presented it in. I haven't been able to look at it since.

For every parenting lapse my children call my attention to, there are three or four missteps I'm fully aware of on my own. I yell. I take mealtime shortcuts. I follow the path of least resistance to bedtime. I worry about having plateaued at an unacceptable level of maternal dysfunction. But my customary failings, the ones I know like my flawed face in the mirror, are less disturbing to me than the lapses pointed out by others. Discovering a lapse is like finding out you're not who you thought you were.

Lapses, I suppose, are part of the human condition. A Jewish aphorism: "Do not trust yourself until the day you die." None of us know what we're capable of, which means we don't—can't—fully know ourselves.

Yet, my kids seem to know me well enough. I don't think they distinguish between the missteps of which I'm aware, and my unconscious lapses; they forgive both with equal rapidity. They don't require perfection of me behavior-wise, nor do they perceive any divergence of identity. They practice a wise kind of vision that is deep and superficial as required. They detect the good intentions beneath my mundane mothering efforts and egregious foul-ups; and they take me at face value, even when that uncontrolled other, that lapse-prone not-me gains sway for a time. Ayin tova, as we say in Hebrew: a good eye.

Perhaps an inability to accept thanks is the flip-side of ingratitude. Not trusting oneself doesn't mean never viewing oneself with a good eye. I should take a lesson from my kids, who overlook my flaws and accept what I have to give with affection and grace. If I can do that, maybe I can graciously receive the ministrations of others, overlooking discomfort they inadvertently cause and focusing on their skill, dedication, and good intentions.

- Anonymous