Or, Mama Sled Goes To The Lady Doctor
I used to have an actual boobologist. She spent her work days in an airless, windowless below-ground section of Georgetown University Hospital, full of glossy leaflets and ionizing radiation. I would go there every year or so for a mammogram and hands-on exam, and she would explain all the gnarly stuff hiding out in my rack. Guys (have any of you read this far?) rarely realize how hard it is to tell a “lump” from all the furniture that is normally arranged in a pair of boobs. She was good at pointing out things like the difference between lymphatic tissue and my prodigious Cooper’s Ligament (generally known as the anatomical bra, and subject to hypertrophy in people who pound the hell out of their chest muscles). She went off to get a Ph.D. in something or other; I miss her.
I have had a really crappy time with medical people in general over the course of my life. Three out of four of them seem to have been hell bent on putting me in my place. I have a bad habit of speaking their language, questioning their judgment and failing to conform to their ideas of what a woman should be (especially when I was younger, this meant a biddable, diffident baby-factory-in-waiting.) I really don’t think that idea has changed very much, judging from the leaflets you see in gynecologists’ offices (they all display images of pretty flowers and demure women who look like they never lift anything heavier than a shopping bag).
So I was, one might say, “between doctors” when I toweled off after a shower last weekend and said WTF is that? meaning a big bump under the skin of my right knocker. This is why I have been a little quiet. Two days, an indelicate exam and a bunch of radiology later, it looks like I have a blob of fat that has organized itself into a nuisance, but I am getting a biopsy next week just to be sure. This assumes that the radiology practice involved doesn’t eject me for doing Hindu pushups, bench dips and calf raises in the waiting room (goddammit, I was bored, the waiting room magazines were all celebrity crap and I had to miss a workout to go there).
The doctor who facilitated all this — a serendipitous referral from a client — gave me no crap about rendering my own medical history in professional language, and asked if menopause was causing me any problems. “You know what’s the best lubricant?” she said conspiratorially. “Crisco. I mean you’re not supposed to eat it any more, it has to be good for something. Crisco.”
She is a relaxed, comfortable looking character, whom I suspect would gladly eat a well-Criscoed pie crust filled with something like mincemeat or rhubarb. Like me, she has a miserable reaction to perfume and squalling rug-rats, and requests pointedly that her clientele leave both at home.
Out by the office door, where you always see the tin box with biological samples for the testing lab, she had a dish of kibble and another of water for the local feral cats. Her staff informed me, on finding that I was a cat person, that the doctor herself had seven.
I’m cautious, but she seems like my kind of gal. I wasn’t planning on the boobological introduction, but you take what you get.
News as it happens.