You give me a reason to live

I spent the day trying out my medical benefits. I'm pleased to report they work. In fact, everyone should have it this good. No really. I mean it.

First there was the flu shot. Then the nice nurse came in and gave me a paper gown and a sheet and asked me if I knew what to do with them. I looked up from the novel I'm reading and nodded but refrained from something like I've been in more stirrups than John Wayne. She's a new nurse. Best she gets me in small doses.

I hummed You Can Leave Your Hat On and stripped down to my socks.The perennial question - leave them on or not? The room was chilly, but I'd gone to the trouble of painting my toenails to match my fingernails. Some decisions are so difficult.

I hummed You Can Leave Your Socks On while I tried to tug the paper gown into some semblance of a garment that didn't show more skin than was medically necessary. I sat on the table and went back to reading the Agatha Christie novel I'm desperate to finish because I cannot figure out who did it.

I didn't get very far because I become fascinated with the size of the paper gown's shoulders. I looked like a Shogun Warrior. I was in the middle of taking a photo of myself  when cute Doctor Jayson knocked on the door. I tossed my phone into my purse and tried to act cool.

We chatted, as per usual, before getting down to business. Right before feeling me up, he noted how pretty my fingernails looked. Damn it. I'd kept my socks on so he'd miss the joy of seeing my sexy toes.

I told him about being published (he's been very encouraging of my writing endeavors over the years) and, unlike my mother who responded to news of the publication with "well, (pause) how's the weather down there, he congratulated me. He asked if I was still working on my novel and I groused that it's moldering on a hard drive. As it should be. It's crap.

Tell me again what it's about?

I did and that led to our discussion of WWII while he did what he had to do and I stared at the ceiling. I've had some interesting interactions in my time, but that is the first time I've talked of snipers and Omaha Beach while someone is looking at my cervix.

Once that bit of fun was over, I was shot full of tetanus and sent on my way with a prescription for happy pills and an appetite suppressant. After a stop in to submit to the phlebotomists aka non-sparkly vampires, I strolled across the hall where I was instructed to strip to the waist, rid myself of any trace of deodorant and powder and don a cape.

From Shogun Warrior to braless super hero. Who cared if I ever finished reading that Poirot?

I waited in a little room with another caped crusader and fiddled with my phone. It's a little cold in here isn't it? she had a lovely southern drawl. Her name was called and I was alone again with Hercule. A few pages later, I was invited into the room housing the breast press. The very patient technician helped me to pose, contorting myself so that my knockers could be mashed with the utmost efficiency.

Okay, hold your breath......don't move.

I returned home with my nipple shields still in place. You never know when those things might come in handy.

Another year, another chance to prevent health problems. And if I have any sense at all, I'll be aware that I'm lucky to have the medical insurance coverage to do this. Not everyone is so fortunate.

Black Magpie Theory: Feeling Flush

I'm doing some creative accounting over at Blackmagpie Theory. 

Stay tuned for tomorrow's exciting episode:  What Happened During My Mammogram
Including the bonus feature 50 Ways to Use Those Left Over Nipple Stickers and Save the Planet

Giddyup!

It's tradition that I blog about my annual visit to the doctor to get checked under the hood, as MathMan likes to say.  I do this to show solidarity with my fellow females who also should be going for this slightly messy, slightly embarrassing and very important annual check up.  I also like to remind the males here that the whole turn your head and cough thing?  Cakewalk.

And we all have rectums so there's nothing to argue about there.

I'm a bit chagrined to tell you that I'm two months late with this annual visit and I still have it to look forward to on Monday.  Until then, I will just have to revel in the sweet anticipation of getting felt up, mashed, starved, finger-banged and sucked of my blood. That sounds like a fetish menu, doesn't it?

Here's some good news along the lines of credit where credit is due - I am now IUD free.  Once the insurance was sorted, the doc's office made an appointment right away et voila!  Today's visit wasn't with cute-boy doctor J with whom I normally visit.  This procedure was handled by the more seasoned Dr. Dubya.  Yeah.  I am convinced that there is not a single liberal doctor in this town so I'm stuck.  This is the practice where I once got into it with the front desk staff because she refused my request to turn down the volume or turn off the TV blaring Fox News.  I was the only patient in the waiting room at the time.

I'm certain that the choice of channels isn't so much to entertain or inform that patients.  It's a political statement.  But what's a chick to do?  Drive an hour plus to Atlanta to show her vagina to strangers?  Not unless I'm getting free drinks and big tips, my friends.

Even so, I try to be pleasant.  Our conversations go something like this:

Him staring into the abyss:  "So I see your uterus has dropped a little more."
Me:  "Really?  Wonderful.  I still can't afford the copay for surgery to have things removed and rejuvenated."
Him:  "Well, just try not to sneeze or cough too much.  Or laugh.  I guess I won't tell you anymore Obama jokes."
Me:  "Well there's the silver lining.  Tell me, though, if something does happen, will it look like a bowling ball falling out of me or what?"
Him:  "More like a tennis ball.  Smaller than that even."
Me:  "Fine.  I assume you'd like me to just tuck it back in and call for an appointment."
Him:   "Only after you've washed your hands."
Me:  "Well, of course, I'm not going to go stuffing my uterus back into my vagina with a pair of dirty paws."
Him:  "I meant you can wait until after you've washed your hands to call for an appointment."
Me:  "Why don't you go back to the Obama jokes."
Him:   "By the way, I like what you've done with the landscaping."
Me:  "Oh, I thought you'd like that."
Him:  "Yes, the landing strip is so 1998."
Me:  "Agreed.  And a nuisance to maintain."
Him:  "So how did you get it to look like that?"
Me:  "The Fox News logo?  There's a template for it on their website."
Him:  "You're kidding!"
Me:  "Yes, I'm kidding."

A Sudden Fondness for Sticky Things

Yes, that's me doing the look up while wearing the paper gown. What else do you expect me to do while I'm waiting for the doctor to come in and service me?

I'm a lying liar. I told a big fib on Pissed in NYC's blog the other day. With complete insouciance, I announced that I no longer required to have annual mammograms. Turns out, I was talking out of my rear end. I don't know where I got the idea that I didn't need an annual Mash for Good Health, but I was wrong.

Let me back up. I had my annual wellness check with cute Dr. Jason this morning We began with a review of my medical record.

"So I see that you're still using meth and coke," he noted as he gazed at his computer's screen.

"Oh, no, change that. I've dropped cocaine and added an occasional LSD tab," I corrected him. "Coke doesn't mix well with my speed."

"Noted."

A few minutes later, he was feeling me up on the table while we discussed bra fittings. (Long story.) Then there I was, all smug while cute Dr. Jason was doing his thing under the sheet, and I asked how many years between mammograms for me now. He reacted with some measure of surprise.

"You need one every year, Silly," he laughed.

"Well, I'll be," I said to myself as I stared at the air duct over my head. I really thought I was off the annual cycle. Oh well, I thought with a shrug and then wondered if the good doctor could just finish me off while he was down there doing whatever he was doing with his hand.

A few minutes later, Dr. Jason handed me a sheet of paper and instructed me to go to the first floor to have my blood drawn and then mosey on across the hall to the imaging center for my mammogram.

I tipped him appropriately and bade him adieu until next time.

The imaging center scheduled an appointment for me later in the day with the added bonus that it would be my favorite technician(? what's the proper term here?) Em performing the procedure. She is the same professional who performed last year's mammogram.

As she prepped me, Em explained the new digital technology. Then she applied the little nipple protector stickies to the ends of my nips. I couldn't help myself. I told her how I smuggled out the ones she applied last year so that I could take them home where I stuck them to the F and J on my keyboard. That served as an effective kid repellent.

Em laughed at that and we discussed how entertaining it might be to learn what other women do with those little sticky things. I told her about how I blogged about the stickers last year.

The mammogram didn't take long at all. I thanked Em and went into the little room to get dressed. I put my bra on without removing the stickers. As I left, Em offered me a couple of extra nipple stickers.

"You're keeping the others, too, aren't you?" she asked.

I nodded. "I'm wearing them home so I can show my husband before I stick them to the keyboard. It's becoming tradition."

So have you had your mammogram yet this year? Seriously. Have you? You can get some fun stickers, you know. And if you have, did you keep your little nipple thingies? I know Pissed in NYC kept hers and stuck them to her fridge last year. What did you do with yours?

Men may be at a risk for breast cancer, too. It's not just a chick thing.

Public Service Announcement over. Oh, and Em, if you're reading this - hi! You did a great job today. I didn't say "owie" a single time. Thank you.