Let’s talk about my rack, shall we?
Today, I got a mammogram, courtesy of Deaf Ladydoctor’s orders. Now, we all know that I hate Deaf Ladydoctor, but getting a mammogram was probably a good idea anyway. And the people at the boob clinic? All nice as can be. I wanted to hug them all.
So, I got a mammogram. And then I waited. I sat in the “inner waiting room,” me and my peeps, hanging out in these little cape things. My peeps are all, you know, pretty much old enough to be my mom.
You get treated differently at the boob clinic when you’re 34. People give you that look. And you realize that none of the magazines appeal to you. All those articles in More about aging gracefully? Umm?
At some point during the waiting, I decided that I Don’t Belong There.
And then word came back that oh yes, the doc thought I should go ahead and get an ultrasound. But they were backed up in the boob clinic, right? So they very graciously gave me an extra gown to go over my cape thing and walked me down to the sonogram clinic in the hospital … where there are sick people.
I sat and waited next to a lady in a wheelchair. She had a binder with her chart in it, an oxygen tank, and about three inches of grey roots.
I didn’t belong there, either. I certainly didn’t belong with people who are sick. I am not sick. I was only there because I have a shitty doctor who doesn’t listen to me when I say that everything is fine!
And I waited.
And then I was on a gurney in a dark room, making small talk with a very nice tech as she did an ultrasound of my boob.
“What’s that black thing?” I asked.
“It’s a cyst.”
“And that right there – is that the same cyst?”
“No, it’s a different one.”
Basically, my boob is a pomegranate and all the seeds are cysts. I am cystastic. Cystoriffic. Actually, I believe the technical term is fibrocystic breast disease.
And so darling tech left the room to go find the doctor. And I waited on that stupid gurney, in that stupid room, wearing that stupid cape thing. I didn’t belong there. I am healthy. This was all a waste of time and a big misunderstanding.
And then the darling tech came in and told me that since the cysts changed with my cycle that everything was fine, and that I only have to come back in if something changes or hurts. So, ta-da! Put on your shirt and go home! You don’t even have to check out!
I left with just enough time to go home, grab Foxie Doxie, and drag him to his follow-up appointment for his Professional Dental Cleaning.
He was adorably freaked out the whole time. But I managed to keep my shit together even when I learned that the vet we usually see, the sweet man who saved the Geriatric Poodle’s life at least twice … has some bad shit going down. A tumor in his chest, which has spread to a few vertebrae … and mets in his brain. At least I managed to wait until I was in the car to start crying.
It’s been sort of a day.
There’s only one thing that will make me feel better: make up some holiday movie sequel goodness and enter my fabulous giveaway. Seriously. It will make me laugh. And will probably cure cancer, promote world peace, and vaporize cysts.