It had been a long time since I had been to the doctor. As a skeptical hypochondriac, I am almost always opposed of doctors and hospitals and refer to my physician of choice: Doctor Google. I heard it said that Google knows more about what the next BIG epidemic is going to be, cause people will type in their symptoms into the search engine:
That being said, I put my (sadly not literal) stock in Google when it comes to being my personal center for disease control. So, after a few months of painstakingly trying to describe and re-describe my symptoms to Dr. Google I was positive that I had breast cancer. Of course, self examination and Dr. Google only goes so far. The peace of mind that comes from seeing an ACTUAL person who has had at least 8 years of education is the only way to TRULY know. I bit the bullet. I went to the doctor.
Well....this was an experience. I told her I would blog about it and she laughed. But she had no idea what was coming.
First, - oh and listen, if you are weak stomached or just feel that maybe this blog title should be have a forewarning of TMI... too bad!- I had the prerequisites for the physical done: height (taller than I had anticipated), weight (about where I guesstimated), blood pressure (normal), pulse (alive). Now time to meet with actual doctor. I was told to then sit naked in a paper gown (front open) and given a paper blanket to drape over my lap and to wait for the doctor.
I forgot to ask the question; How long of a wait will it be? Too late to ask, and now naked (aside from clothing that would disintegrate with one careless slip of a seemingly innocent enough drink) I was left to ponder: should I get up and get a magazine. If I do and the doctor opens the door, my bottom might be exposed to the hall way. I then remember that the blinds are semi-cracked in the room, the thought bothered me, but then I figured anyone desperate enough to peek in deserved to look at my bottom. Okay I would just lean and get a magazine. Wait, I hate magazines. So chocked full of ads they take the pleasure out of the would-be enjoyment- much like TVs. I decided to get my cell phone. My theory, if you are going to pay $90 I better get every second of enjoyment out of it.
25 minutes later the doctor enters. I am then asked what I believe to be the toughest questions I can really think of: my family's medical history. Much like the genealogical knowledge that I have my family it consists of what I believe to be accurate. "I think my mom has high blood pressure. Or maybe heart disease...Diabetes for sure. Yes. and both of her parents. What type..... The type that, um... you get...when you eat too much sugar... and there's like, um,...an imbalance in the blood sugars, er...glucose... insulin? Um.... Look, can I do a quick Dr. Google search on my phone? I pay $90 a month for it and would like to use it as often as possible". Depressing AND pathetic, I know. I hung my head in shame as she continued to question me.
Here's my question, what happened to the FUTURE of medicine. In the movie Gattaca there is a way to take a sample of a person's blood and known not only what will kill them but find out if they have asthma, what allergies and even what their FAMILIES MEDICAL HISTORY! I want movie medical technology.
Pap Smear. Isn't that the dirtiest of words? I can't think of anything more horrific sounding. I am not nervous so much to have it done, but could we call it something else. Shakespeare wrote that "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" but pap smears are different. Various narcotics have cute nicknames that I believe pap smear could learn something from. What if we called pap smears "chocolate Easter eggs". Like we're going on a hunt to find something exciting (or not if the results come back in a negative way). Maybe P.S. could take a page from Forrest Gump's book, "Box o' Chocolates" (I am leaning towards this one): you never know what you're gonna have.
Doctor readies for examination: Lubricant? Check. Plastic spatula? Check. Speculum? Check. Cable with light attached? Check. Small brush? Check. (Maybe you should check my blood pressure now!).
As my doctor puts on her gloves and fits the lighted cable into the speculum I asked an ....innocent enough question, "Have you ever seen the movie
Teeth?" She tell me she hasn't. She is lubricating the end of the speculum as I continue. "Well, I haven't either, but my friend has seen it and she told me about it. It's a horror film about this girl that has teeth in her vagina." The doctor looks at me (I can't see this cause I am lying down, but I can feel her gaze on me, yet she remains silent. "Well, I mean I am sure that you've never run across anything like that, probably it's not possible, but just think, you go in there for exam and
BAM! something has bitten you."
Again silence. "Pretty crazy," I say, trying to set her at ease. We both giggle, and soon we are laughing, really hard at the absurdity of it all. But as I mount the stirrups and she gets ready to poke about down there, we both hold are breath-- just in case. ...No worries, I am teeth free! Woot!
I have a breast examination. She feels what I am concerned about and prescribes me to have an ultrasound done of the breast and see what's up, if anything. By the way, I did tell her that Dr. Google recommended that I come to see her. She didn't find that amusing. Teeth? A resounding yes! Search engine quack? No! humph.
I go to get blood drawn, something that I actually enjoy having done. Something about needles doesn't scare me. I can't wait to prove how brave I am, I think. I will later get a call that says everything is fab-fab-fabosity there. Woot woot!
I go home and later get a call from the Women's clinic in Fred Vegas. Something has changed-- my doctor wants an ultrasound done AND a mammogram. Hypochondriac button switched to ON. As is my computer and I begin searching Google once more trying to find any symptom, photo, or website that I might have missed.
Day of mammogram arrives (after a week of sleepless nights and breast fondling. As if I am a breast clairvoyant: "what's wrong with yooouuuuuu???"), I drive with a friend down to Fred Vegas. Arrive at wrong building, cross my name off their "sign in here" page and cross street to correct building. This is where the fun begins.
I sign in and then am called up, taken to a change room and given a small wrap shirt to wear. I ask for a gown because I did not dress appropriately. If I had done my laundry I would have had pants on, thereby making wrap shirt work, instead I am in a dress and she gives me a gown to wear. I tie all the ties (one inside, one outside). I am lead into a room where I am supposed to lay on the table and have the ultrasound down. I am told to undo the ties. Outside ones, undone. "The inside, too..." the ultrasound technician says exasperated, I am sure she is thinking "why did this person tie the inside ties? Didn't she know we were going to have to open this?" It was for comical relief, lady, yeesh.
Ultrasound completed, gel wipes off and I am told to wait and see if a doctor wants to come in and check out the breast and results of ultrasound photos. As the technician leaves she lowers the lights (for my ease?...). The room is down mostly dim with a few ceiling lights- they are a soft pink, a soft yellow and a soft blue. In the background elevator MUSAK with funky tempo is playing. Odd....
A doctor comes in, "Where is the lump you think you are feeling?" I point, he touches, "Ah, yes, well, let's see," he slathers my breast in ultrasound goop and goes in with the ultrasound wand- "Wait, where is it?" he feels again, "hmmm. You know I am not sure, lets have Doctor Someone else come in an' cop a feel". I am kidding. He didn't say that, but it felt like he might...very weird and porno music playing in background didn't help.
Off to mammogram. Nothing to be said there. I hear it's painful, but my theory is it's only painful for those members of the itty bitty titty committee. If you have nothing to put on the "mammogram shelf", as I like to put it, I would imagine they have a hard time getting anything to snap a photo of. I picture doctors and nurses arranging their flatter patients carefully and meticulously and out of no where snatching their nipples with pliers and shouting "START THE MACHINE" and sandwiching the boob in place. And further, I would imagine that "don't breathe, don't move" would be agony for anyone in that position. To you ladies, I am sorry from the bottom of my heart. However once a year mammogram is nothing to the back pain of being well-endowed. Plus I bet no one "accidentally" brushes up against you on the bus and if you say anything about it, they don't claim it's your fault for having larger breasties. Lucky, A-Cups.
Sooooo end result: I am fine. Thanks for asking.
