Boobs and goo

It's that time of year again. That time where I get a glorious 40 minutes to myself (not counting driving time, during which I am on my California-required headset talking to one of five people: The Husband, The Sister, The Mom, Amber or Phish. What is this time you ask? It's time for my annual visit to the gynecologist. Oh, joy. (Yes, there's sarcasm. I know that "tone" is difficult to read on the internet, so I'll just confirm that this infact was sarcasm.)

Anywho....after bantering a bit with the lovely nurse/office assistant, I sat alone, bare to the world save for a perfectly pressed hospital gown and an all-together-too-noisy paper sheet. Modest? No. Functional? For the task at hand, yes.

Which brings me to the freak-out-of-the-day: I have "cystic lumps" in my boobs. My trusty boobs that have lured me a husband and fed a baby for a year, they're betraying me! I've been good to them, too. I've worn properly fitting undergarments. I do self-exams on a monthly basis. Heck, I even requested a referral to get that BRAC-1 test to find out if I'm a carrier of the breast cancer gene. I'm doing it all right! Hear me world? I'm doing all the right things. And so why am I going to the Breast Care Center next Wednesday at 1pm for a 90 minutes ultrasound? Because I have to. Because if I want to tell other people, "Oh, it's nothing. I went through 'the scare' once, too. You'll be fine" then I'll have to actually walk in that door, strip to my waist in front of a stranger and bare my fears to a magic wand smeared with KY goo. Speaking of goo...that is by far the worst part of these visits. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you don't want to know. Trust me.

And so, today, I'm happy to be something, but I'm not sure what it is right now, because today I'm just scared. I guess I'm happy to be ignorant, at least until next Wednesday.