How are your bosoms getting along? Yes, we’re striking out into new territory, but this a website full of resources for women and what is more womanly than our bosoms? Our breasts are very important. After all, most of us have them.
Mine have been bothering me lately. Not, I hasten to add, because they are not perky and stand alone like beacons of perfection (they aren’t, they have never been and frankly I suspect only statues ever achieve that. Oh, and plastic surgery), but because they were hurting me a bit. And, because two people very dear to me have both found lumps recently and had have to treatment. It focuses the mind.
Ladybumps
So back to the ‘ladybumps’, as Ronald Reagan’s Spitting Image puppet always referred to them. Or chesticles, or boobs, or even, if you insist, ‘tits’, but I hate that word (no idea why), so mine are resolutely bosoms, as in heaving. I love the idea of a heaving bosom. I suspect it may date back to my pre-pubescent, illicit reading of books featuring s e x under the duvet. (Sorry, not a duvet, it would have been blankets, possibly with an eiderdown).
After a few weeks of moaning about them (my bosoms) to my husband, I finally made an appointment with my GP. I’m about to share that experience with you so brace yourself, darlings.
The Breast Examination
My GP is a lovely, kind man; I have no complaints. I am so full of awe for all those NHS and care staff who remain professional and cheerful despite being the most overworked ever in their entire professional lives. So, in the spirit of spreading a bit of kindness, my first thought was I’ll take something nice into the surgery because it’s Monday morning and they are probably feeling a bit daunted at the prospect of another week.
Being kind is good for everyone, not least me. I also happen to know that anxious and stressed patients are giving quite a few of the surgery staff a really hard time and they’re getting a lot of abuse. So, I resolved to go into my ‘cheery patient mode’ as a kind of counterweight. Of course, grumpy patient may be more preferable to NHS staff than my resolutely cheery Pollyanna style, but they are too polite to say…
The Incredible Journey
Off I set, cheery face firmly fixed. This is where I made my first mistake. I forgot that I’d booked my car in for a service and would have to walk. I don’t mind walking, it’s barely a mile, but somehow I feel I should arrive all fragrant and cool. Especially if I’m getting my kit off… It just seems polite.
I made another basic error. Heavy gifts. I popped two bottles of wine in my bag for my doctor and some summery cordial for the staffroom. My plan was to buy something en route as well, like fruit and maybe chocolates.
It was raining, drizzly and mizzly. You know, when it’s really close and warm but there’s no air. This makes my hair frizz which is a look I’ve yet to embrace with joy. I also had three heavy glass bottles in my bag and they got heavier (how does that happen?) And somehow I left without a mask and had to go back to get it. So then I was a bit short of time and tried to walk faster. My planned detour to the shop didn’t work because they were undergoing a refurb and I managed to walk past the barriers and into the shop before I realised it was full of workmen and absolutely bereft of delights.
When All Else Fails, Try Cake
A mild panic set in, alleviated by my passing the village cafe. They had cakes! Ok, it wasn’t an especially healthy option but they are lovely cakes. I rushed in, and asked if they would sell me a whole cake. The owner, a neighbour, on learning it was for the surgery, tried to give me a ridiculous discount and I tried not to let him. I won but I think I still took advantage of his good nature so here’s his website. If you’re ever close by do pop in.
By now I have only 5 minutes left to get to the surgery and, as well as toting three increasingly weighty glass bottles, I also have a big cake on a paper plate covered with a flimsy bit of clingfilm in my hand, which I am trying really hard not to drop as my bag slips down my shoulder. It was like a grown up version of an egg and spoon race, and I was never very good at those…
The Arrival
All attempts at arriving fragrant and cool have long gone. I am one hot sweaty mess with hair that makes me look the bride of Frankenstein. My cleverly chosen easy-to-take off clothes are sticking to me like a second clammy skin. I could probably be an extra in an episode of Dr Who. Plus, I am as red as red can be and panting.
Gratefully, I hand over the cake, cordial and card to reception who are genuinely pleased and direct me to my taped off Covid free square of carpet. I try to breath slowly and stop sweating, I mean glowing. I fail. Far too quickly the doctor comes out in scrubs (it was like an episode of Gray’s Anatomy) and calls me through.
Clutching my bag, I follow him and he pulls the curtains around me. My instructions are to take off my top half and sit on the edge of the couch with my legs dangling. I’ve had worse offers… The dangling bit is easy as I’m only 5ft 3 but taking off my top half? Not so good. I had chosen a button up cardigan thinking it would be easy to remove. Let me tell you now, do not expect to divest yourself of clothing if you have tiny pearl buttons and in a previous wearing have decided to put in a couple of safety pins for good measure.
Tip for Undressing – No Buttons
It took forever to unbutton myself; the faster I tried to go the more entangled I became. Then I was faced with the Herculean task of trying to pull the cardy from my sweaty limbs which fought me every step of the way.
“Sorry, won’t be long” I called through the screen. “Take your time” he replied, although clearly he was incredibly busy and having an old woman who had lost the ability to undress herself was probably not in his top ten moments of surgery joy.
Finally, I get the wretched thing off me and then attempt my bra. It was a tiny bit easier than the cardigan but still not a willing participant. Who on earth invented bras? I feel it must have been someone who didn’t have to wear them, i.e. a man, but Google tells me it was a French woman in 1889. Look at that picture. Pure torture. Why would a woman inflict that on another woman? I like the shoes though.
I’m now ready with my boobs laid bare but fully clothed from the waist down. I bundle my clothes onto my lap, call out that I’m ready ( I was so NOT ready), and sit swinging my legs to show that they were duly dangling, trying to maintain a bit of dignity but knowing that moment had long since passed. The doctor appears like a magician from behind the curtain and explains the process, very professionally and very kindly. His eye to my eye contact is a thing of beauty to behold.
Assume The Position
He tells me to place one arm behind my neck, just like a 50s pin up. (He didn’t say that, that’s my interpretation). I only took a couple of attempts to get it right because honestly, it’s not as easy as it looks. I notice that he is wearing plastic gloves. A good move in the circumstances, obviously, but now I think they will stick to me like sellotape and we’ll have to involve a third party. Fortunately they don’t. The relief of not having an audience makes me sweat some more.
The picture at the top is exactly how I looked… except with no top on. And frizzy hair. Oh, and about 40 years older and who knows how many pounds heavier. And I was lying on paper, which tried to come home with me, like an oversized version of having a bit of toilet paper stick to your shoe. Otherwise she’s a dead ringer. Uncanny.
The End Of The Saga
To cut to the end. (Do I hear you cry, thank heavens?) He examined me, ignoring my quips about This is just like being on the beach at St Tropez if only you had a heat lamp, reassured me, and we agreed a plan. (I am OK , by the way). I struggled womanfully back into my clothes, no easier than taking them off and reminiscent of trying to put on a wet swimsuit and we all know how impossible that is. Finally, I pulled back the curtains with a dramatic swish and tried to look like a grown up again.
But The Gifts, Jane?
The wine, did you say? Oh yes, the wine. I did have a moment of doubt about handing it over, but the thought of lugging it all the way back was too awful. I had thought about giving it to him pre exam, but then thought it might look like a bribe. A bribe for what I have no idea but when you’re hot and flustered it’s hard to be rational – Don’t hurt me?
But now I was about to hand him two bottles of quite nice wine after my breast exam and did that send a weird message, too? Would he think I was thanking him for having the courage to cop a feel (That’s medical terminology, don’t @ me, just click the link) Or, that I was so desperate for human touch that I had manufactured an excuse and was now inviting him to have a drink with me?
This being kind thing is a minefield of potential misinterpretation.
Anyway, dear reader, I give him the wine and nothing odd happened beyond him really appreciating it.
The Moral of This Story
There are several:
- Go to any appointments which involve taking your clothes off and carrying stuff by car and wear loose flowing cotton clothes that just pull over your head. Buttons are bad, bad things.
- Take every opportunity to show gratitude to those who have kept us going through this pandemic. However tired and fed up with it all you feel they have had it much, much worse. Spread the love and be kind.
- Check your breasts regularly. Or get someone else to check them if you want to add a little frisson of excitement into your life. But do look after your health.
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Posted on July 5th, 2021 by Jane
