Friday, April 19, 2013


I don't mean to keep harping on about my boobs and the bras that contain them (, but I have been having some recent issues that were causing me concern.  I don't know how to really describe what was going on...except to say that my left breast started to not feel "right." So I did what any mature 40-something woman would do...I whined about it, mashed around on my own boob 37 times a day and constantly Googled my symptoms.  I don't know when I will ever learn that I can seriously scare the shit out of myself by looking up ANYTHING, even the possible causes of a sore toe, and that WebMD is just going to give me nightmares.  I tried to enlist the help of the hubby... Well, anyone who knows him probably knows how THAT went...

Me: Jeff, feel my boobs and tell me if they feel all right
Jeff: You got it!
Me: NO!!! This is purely for medicinal purposes...does one feel different than the other??
Jeff: Grope
Me: Seriously, do they feel the same as they always have?
Jeff: (Something inappropriate that I can't even repeat here.)

Me: Look, no...stop that.  I am trying to determine if...
Jeff: Mhmmmm....boobies.
Me: God, NEVERMIND, Beavis.

After three week of this...I couldn't really tell if I was REALLY having soreness and tenderness or if I'd caused it myself by obsessively trying to see if there was something wrong.  Finally, flipping through my calendar, I realized that my yearly "lady" exam was coming up in May...and I was gonna have to go to a real live medical professional soon anyway, so I called the office...

"But Marianne!" you say..."Why didn't you just talk to your VERYOWN best friend, Jacquie,  who ALSO happens to be a Gynecologist?  Who even has her own blog : FILLED with "questions you'd ask your best friend if she was a gynecologist"?"
Well, I didn't because she's in New Zealand at the moment, I'd have had to email her because I can't call her and I miss her terribly anyway and I was too busy feeling sorry for myself, plus she will tell me to go into the office and get my boobs squished in the mammogram machine and also will probably lecture me about quitting smoking completly even though I only do it a little bit and also that it's probably all connected to the fact that I'm over 40 and these things happen when your boobs get old...but she'd only be telling me these things because she loves me and...Yeah, I have no real good excuse for not contacting her...

But I did finally put my big girl panties on and did the next best thing...I called Jacquie's nurse, who worked me in with my Gyno (they are part of the same practice...J's just on a leave of absence right now) so that she could examine me and see if my left boob was trying to rot off.  My doctor, Dr. C, is a very awesome...she's every bit as blunt as Jacquie and even though I can resent that sometimes, it's truly what I need.  My only complaint (and this is TOTALLY my issue, not hers) is that she is so nice and friendly that she talks to me during exams.  Despite my willingness to talk about my breastular area all over the internets and all...I'm actually quite a modest person.  I would really rather lie on my back and think of England during my exam while some nice soothing Muzak plays in the background and NO ONE talks until everyone is equally clothed.  But Dr. C, in what I am sure is an attempt to make me unclench every muscle in my body, tries to help me forget what's going on by chatting with me...

"What a lovely anklet you have!  I have been looking for one with multicolored beads forEVER..."

"Oh? Anklet?  Oh, the one right there by your right ear??? Gah!"

(That really happened, by the way)

Finally, after I have been poked and prodded, and properly felt up, Dr. C tells me that she didn't feel anything wrong and helps me sit up and asks me again what my concern was exactly as I turn seventeen shades of red because I am sitting there wearing basically a couple of paper towels...

"My left one feels heavier than my right..."

Which is when she lifts one in each hand like she's gauging the weight of a couple of canteloupes (they're melons...get it?) and says, "Meh...not that I can tell." Then she lets me get dressed and sends me over to the lab for a mammogram (I KNEW IT!) and a sonogram. The sonogram wasn't so bad, it was the mammogram I had been dreading...and I was right too...they have a new booby-mashing machine that has a readout WHERE I CAN SEE IT of how much force they were mashing my boobies with...(around 25 lbs)...Seriously, people, this is information I do not need access just freaks my analytical brain out and stresses me more. Twenty-five pounds is a lot of weight for my girls to get mashed by, ya'll.  It's like setting the box of cat litter down on one.

Preliminary reactions from everyone (I got felt up by three different people in one day...yet no one even bought me a drink) are that nothing is wrong except that I have 40+ year old boobs...but I still need to wait for the official results.  In the meantime, I need to quit smoking (Gah!), I have to give up caffeine (gasp! this is even worse than I thought) and I need to go get myself properly fitted for a bra (because I haven't been violated enough, apparently). Looks like my cigarette and Starbucks money is going to be going towards some new bras.  At least Jeff will be pleased.

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