Musings from some former inhabitants of the sprawling metropolis that is Prudhomme City

Thursday, October 11, 2007

No Tumor, No Cry

So I had my six month check-up on my misbehaving boob today. A little background info: Back in April, I had my first mammogram. My doctor insisted that I go, even though 40 is now the recommended age for beginning annual mammograms. Thanks, Dr. M! What? You're not making enough money off of my yearly pelvic? Anyway, the day after I had my mammogram, I got a call from the boob joint saying they'd seen something on the x-ray. They wanted to take a closer look since they had no previous x-rays with which to compare the anomalies. Needless to say, I was completely freaked out. The suspected boob got labeled The Bad Boob. I will not divulge which of my matching pair is now infamous. I'm turning that into a fun new game called "Who read The Chronicle?" and I'll know who read it because the next time I see him/her, that person will be staring at my chest wondering, "Which one? Right or left? Right or left? Ah, God, the suspense!" It'll be good for our relationship. A little mystery to keep things interesting. Back to the point...again. At the initial sonogram, the doctor said the bloops on the screen looked like benign cysts, but I should come back in six months just to be safe (and so he could make more money off of The Bad Boob... Cha-ching!) And for six months now, I've been sweating it out, frantically inspecting The Bad Boob for any sign of a lump with car keys in hand ready to speed off to the nearest hospital. Today, I went back. One good thing about the boob place is that, unlike a regular doctor's office, they do not do all those annoying things, like check your blood pressure, listen to your heart, and, best of all, no weigh-in, ladies. Holla! But they do ask a very weird question. I'm unsure as to the application of it to the entire process. Now getting a mammogram involves smooshing your twins between two cold, hard peices of plastic. It's not the best medical experience I've ever had, but it's no comparison to the trauma of the dentist for a dentophobe (is that a word?) like me. The sonogram invloves them slathering cold gel on you and running a little wand camera thingie all over the breast. Again, a little icky, but not so bad. The question that threw me off both times is this: "Do you have a living will?" Why would they ask that? For the life of me (no pun intended), I can't figure out, based on the procedures I went through, how you'd manage to roll out of there brain dead. Strange and disconcerting- a match made in heaven.

The good (GREAT!) news is that I do, in fact, just have some benign cysts. They didn't change. As Jamie, the sonogram tech, put it- "Bad things grow!" Oh, Jamie, so true, so true. So The Bad Boob is now back in my good graces since I no longer have to worry about it. And, you know, despite the fact that my boobs are a little more National Geographic than Playboy these days, I am actually quite fond of them. I'd hate for anything to happen to either of them. With that, The No Longer Bad Boob and I bid adieu to Jamie and the rest of the boob crew until next year. Thank you, Lord!

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