So, the other day, I had my first mammogram.
Wow, was THAT fun.
And since there is no history in my family of any kind of breast ailment, this was the traditional, first mammogram at age forty.
I won’t bore you with the squishy details, because I am sure there is a Lifetime Movie out there that will tell you EVERYTHING and MORE about mammograms. But I’m sure the doctor will be hunky…
I will say though–if they want us to get so…close to that machine–the least they could do is make it fuzzy and cute so it wouldn’t feel like we’re getting felt up by Mr Roboto.
And no. No Domo Arigato.
But what I realized is that this was a rite of passage, if you will. That this lovely procedure marks the time when my doctor will now talk to me about different things. Long gone are the halcyon days of asking me about STD screens and proscribing whatever antibiotic that doesn’t make me break out in hives for my gazillionth case of tonsilitis (and yes, i’ve STILL got ‘em, bitches!) and now will begin gentle conversations about tests, and vitamins and joint deterioration and…dunh dunh DUUUUNNNNHHHH! Menopause.
I’ve laid out the timeline of doctor patient conversations as such:
So i’ve still got some time before she starts prescribing every pill known to man to me to cure this thing called AGING. But it won’t be long now…