Last week when I went in for my physical I took the time to fill out
my owner's manual all the paper work detailing my health history, that of my family, and I think maybe my neighbor, and possibly my babysitter from when I was like five; and I'm not sure but I think when all was said and done, after dotting the I's and crossing the T's I might have bought a house. Or a car. Or adopted an infant. Then once inside the exam room I was asked the same exact questions by the doctor who entered the information into the computer as I answered. I was all, I have these papers. And she was like, yeah yeah yeah shut up. If they're not going to bother to look at the paperwork you've filled out why do they insist that it be done at all? I don't know about you but I'd rather skim through an outdated gossip magazine than be given busy work for the waiting room. Whatevs.
Blood was drawn from one arm while the other was accosted by a tetanus shot which immediately rendered my left arm useless with all the hurty. We discussed my concerns about unpredictable menstrual cycles and what the hell is up with my hormones but I don't want to over-share here. At some point there was a breast exam, which is just not my kind of party, and was followed with, "have you ever had a mammogram"? And I was all lalalalalalaIcanthearyoulalalala no. Apparently I've reached that age coupled with family history and Mars being in retrograde - an appointment was scheduled and for the week leading up to it I was in moderate freak-out mode.
I'd heard tales of the discomfort, the support groups who accompany each other to these things, the awfulness of it all, my own mother with her Godspeed my friend, and ohdearlord the squishing. The compressing. The pancaking of the girls. Mah BOOHBS. The literature I was given warned of possible bruising, pain that may or may not be soothed by over the counter pain relievers and please contact your primary physician for the
street hardcore shit, and um...ew...potential nipple discharge? And I'm all what fucking Conan the Barbarian designed this instrument of torture?
Then I had it done. Could it have been any less of a big deal? No. No, it really couldn't. If you've never had this done and were worried about what it feels like, grab your wrist with your hand and give it a good squeeze. Eight times. All done.
October is National Breast Cancer Awareness month. Tell a friend. And tell them the damn truth.
In other news not related to my rack:
I read a book.