Poke, Prod, Squash, Squish, Ahhhh

I went in for my annual pelvic exam this week. (Yes, it's one of those posts, so read on--if you dare). This typically unpleasant, though uneventful event was a little more eventful and unpleasant this time around.

After the typical poking and prodding, the PA spent a little extra time feeling up my boob. Apparently, she found something that was slightly concerning. I suppose I should have taken Delta's advice and enlisted my husband in the endeavor a little earlier on. Though, I doubt it would have done much good, because I have been told before that my breasts are somewhat fibrocystic. This essentially means that they always feel rather lumpy and that this lumpiness changes with my hormones. So, self-breast exams are a little like bobbing for a granny smith in a tub full of red delicious while blindfolded. And as such, the PA was pretty sure what she'd encountered was just a harmless cyst. Nevertheless, I was instructed to go for an ultrasound.

So, I dutifully arranged for a friend to watch Elliot (because what 4-year-old should be exposed to somebody squishing his mom's boobs around, although he would have been thrilled to no end examining the medical equipment). I went in and they squished and squirted (the ultrasound jelly, not my boobs), poked and prodded for some time. Then I waited and listened to the old guy in the room next door complain about having to go through his procedure whilst making stupid cracks to the technician (do you think people say stupider things when they think nobody else can hear them? Discuss). Then somebody else came in a poked around for a bit. I'm sensing that cysts don't show up so well because they're less dense than say tumors (or at least this is what I'm hoping). Nonetheless, I've been having a bit of anxiety over it for the past couple of days.

Then, after a good 45 minutes with my girls hanging out of a lovely backwards hospital gown, I'm informed that they like to do a mammogram of anyone over 35 with a palpable lump. So, I get to wait another couple of hours until they can squeeze me into the schedule to squeeze my boob.

At this point, I'm a little apprehensive. Not being 40, I've never been mamm-ed. But I've heard tell it is akin to slamming your boob in the refrigerator door repeatedly, or closing the garage on it over and over again. Matt asked if this was true and I said, well, sort of--it's a little like closing the refrigerator door on your boob slowly and with great force then repeating the fun a few times in various akward positions. My favorite question was whether or not I was experiencing pain or discomfort from the area. I responded that up until the long ultrasound session, I had not, but towards the end, I was certainly feeling some discomfort. And the mamm itself was no picnic. (I can call it a mamm now, since I've joined the club).

Well, beyond a full morning at the hospital, I left with a sense of relief. I was informed that all the poking and prodding indicated that there is nothing of concern in my left boob. (Well, I guess that depends on whose concerned). But that the lump is likely just fibrocystic or fatty tissue (are they calling me fat?). I left the hospital happy and relieved that all was well. Yet, I can't help but then do the math of how much this whole little ordeal cost me in lost time--in time I'll never get back, time I could have spent doing something else.

But then, I suppose peace of mind is worth something.