Breasts, No No's and Heinies

At 56 years old, and three children under my belt I am neither embarrassed nor awkward during my annual spread-eagle exam. I love my Dr, which makes a great deal of difference; and to be blunt, if the nurse or my Dr. see something on me that is different than the thousands of butt, breasts and no no's that they have seen, I'm screwed anyway so who cares.

My gynie is semi retired and only sees us old girls. No more babies for him, nope just us post menopausal beauties.   He wears suspenders with his flannel shirt, always takes time for questions in his office after the exam, and never seems rushed. 

Most of the women I work with go to him and we are forbidding him from retiring completely.  Maybe I should send his wife a note informing her of this decision.

Over the years I have had my share of Gynies tell me I'm fat (Like I really, hadn't noticed) while I was laying naked on that stupid table with my legs swung up over my shoulders.  I'm sorry, but couldn't he wait until I at least closed my legs, or better yet, had my clothes back on.  Why wait till I was in a position that resembled an upside down umbrella holder.  I mean really.  I also had a Dr. tell me that my who who was deep (yup, deep). I was 15 or 16 at the time and at a Planned Parent Hood office.


There he sat, in his catcher's position between my legs (at this age I was mortified and he literally had to pry my knees open with the help of a nurse) and as he was rummaging around in there he proceeded to tell me that I have a "deep one".

What the hell does that mean? Is that good? Is it bad? Should I apply for a movie in the next porn film that comes my way? I have no idea. All I know is that moment I wanted to crawl in a hole and die;  (no pun intended) with my deep one, of course.

My latest exam proved interesting as well.  As my Dr. was starting the examination with the jaws of death as my daughter calls them (explanation to follow) he was having trouble opening my cervix. Now, my breasts started to mutiny years ago. Sagging, swaying and swinging by my waist every time I walk. But my cervix, now this was just too much to handle. I swear he needed forceps to pry that sucker open so he could take what he needed for the test.

When he was finally finished, he assured me all was well; I then assured him it was sealed shut because it had died many many years ago.  Remember the great Kong attempt? Exactly! Need I say more?

OK, back to the jaws of death. When I took my daughter for the first time for her examination, I explained it all to her, except that is, THE JAWS OF DEATH. I can almost hear the theme from Jaws whenever I say that.

She was frightened and unsure, as we all are on our first visit, but I promised her it would be OK and I proceeded to park myself in the waiting room and worry.  This is my child that at the age of 13 was hit with bipolar.  To say this appointment was stressful for both of us is an understatement.

Suffice it to say, the exam went well, but as soon as we got into the car, a look of horror came over her face as she screamed at me "Why didn't you tell me about the jaws of death". I had to be honest, I just didn't think she would go if I had.

Well, my exam is over once again for the year; I'll wait for the result of my pap test and then off I will go to my least favorite of womanly duties as far as our health is concerned. THE MAMMOGRAM!!! da da da daaaaa

I guarantee you that a man invented this machine.  You can bet your ass he would have redesigned it if he had to put his balls in there for a hernia test. 

Once again, I digress.

How such a big mass of flesh can be smashed to within a micro fraction of an inch I will never understand. You would think that the force of the hydraulic crusher would be enough to kill all your nerve endings and your blood vessels. I don't know how it doesn't and to be honest, I don't want to.

I have only looked at the result of the crushing machine once and thought I would faint.  I won't look again.  I can see it now, fainting with my breast clamped between two metal plates.  I would be left limply hanging there making my one boob hang lower than it already does. 

Makes me shudder.

But there again you have to stand there, letting the technician lift, move and manipulate you breast; all the while in the back of your mind you know what is coming.

Hold still, don't breath, this will only take a second. Second my ass. As the firm metal plate descends slowly, all you can do is wait. 

No one told me about this pain when  I first went.  Now I know why; like my daughter and the jaws of death, I would not have gone. Bite me, I'll take my chances.

I have been told that the smaller chested woman feels more pain the the giant tatas that I carry around.  At least with a large breasted woman, there is something to put there. Kind of like a blob of pizza dough slapped down on the counter. 

With a small breasted woman, they have to pull whatever is there and try to smash something, as little as it may be. 

After imagining that, I think I'll stick with what I have; not that I have a choice though do I?

Have I mentioned that I had my first colonoscopy?  I was surprised to find that that was the easiest of all the tests we need to go through as we get older.

I wish I had known that from the start.  I was in an utter state of panic over this test.  Oh, I knew you had to drink this awful stuff that made you go to the bathroom for 12 hours straight and that you could only drink clear liquids.  Bad enough, but I managed to get through that just fine. 

It was how they did that test that scared me, and boy was I wrong about this procedure. 

Had I known that I would be lying flat on my back, covered with a sheet when they put me under I would have gone into that procedure room ready, willing and able. 

But, because I'm and idiot and keep forgetting that fact, I thought that I would be lying on my stomach and that the table would be hinged in the middle.  It was my understanding that the table would be turned on to bend in the middle with my rump rising up like the morning sun. 

I would look like a giant upside down V.  Ass eye level for the Dr. to do his roto rooter magic.  When the procedure was done, I assumed the table would close, leaving me flat on my stomach again.

Talk about being a mess about this.  I mean maybe if I were thin, but to be overweight and have my ass shot up like that was making me crazy. 

Finally, I asked one of the guys I work with about it and he was nice enough to tell me the truth and not lead me on thinking the wrong thing about the procedure.

So, as I lay in wait to be put under, I quietly told the nurse that I was embarrassed due to my weight and she assured me that they were all professionals in the room and that it was a life-saving test; not to worry. 

As the technician started the drip to put me under, I could swear I could hear the faint sound of laughter.  God help me and my imagination.

So, I've lived to have my breasts, crotch and ass all looked at, felt up and probed. 

I'm healthy, happy and cleaned out.

What could be better?

If only I could be that comfortable showing my feet..

Oldies but Goodies

It's been quite a few weeks here at the Santa house.  Tensions and problems within the workings of relationships, health and family members.  Just life I guess.  Who doesn't experience times when it seems that almost everyone in your inner circle is having some kind of turmoil or angst? 

That, along with my mother's birthday coming for the second time since she died in 2009.  It doesn't seem to ever go away.  And with the goings on in our lives right now, I'm convinced that if she were still here, she could make it all better.  My mother could always make things better.  I guess that's what mom's do better than just about anything...

One look or the simple touch of her hand on mine; that's all that was needed sometimes to make all the dark and bad stuff go away; at least for a time anyway.

Mom would have been 93 in June; she had a good long run.  It doesn't make it any easier though, she was my mother pure and simple and although I know that she was ready to go when the time came, I wish I could have just one more minute with her; just one. 

Compound that with the passing of a gentleman I went to school with.  56 year's old.  Much to young to be taken from his family.  I saw him two years ago and although our meeting was brief, I am so thankful that I have that short memory of him.
 

I believe he leaves behind a daughter, grandson and countless family members and friends.

I have not been able to get him off my mind. 

Too close to home maybe.

The memorial service was sad, as they always are.  There were so many people from all different age groups and backgrounds.  You never really know what a small world it is until you see just how many lives one person has touched.  What a legacy; to have meant so much to so many in so many different ways.


It was a very odd day.  Along with the condolences and words of comfort to the family, it was also like a mini class reunion only profoundly sad with guilty smiles passing over people's faces every time someone forgot for a moment why we were there and dared to share a funny story or laugh nervously.

Phrases like "I can't believe he was so young" while in the back of our minds it was, "we are so young, how could this happen; to one of us?" 

For quite a while I just watched his mother greet people with a dignity and poise that I found strengthening. 

I hope that she found some comfort in knowing that so many people loved her son.  You shouldn't have to bury a child; it's that simple.


I don't think I will ever get used to funerals.  At least I hope I don't.... 

Anyway.

Things seem to creep up on you, and then all at once your plate is full once again and you have no recourse but to begin that slow crawl into depression and helplessness.  Extreme, maybe; but the feelings are there and they scare the hell out of me sometimes.

With all these things swirling around in my mind, I have been struggling with what to blog about for weeks.  I started at least four different blogs, a different subject each time, always starting off with a bang and then the dreaded white pages.  Nothing.  Nothing funny, sad , silly or profound.  I was completely blocked.  What an awful feeling.

Now granted, I realize I'm not writing for the masses and the world as we know it is not going to stop revolving if I don't post, but I am happy to say that people look forward to my writing, thus more stress.  But, that alone makes it worthwhile for me to push ahead and just keep trying. 

It was because of my feeling down and my husband not knowing what to do to cheer me up, he suggested that we go to our local pub to listen to a group that we like to see whenever they are in our little town. 

Oldies but goodies; you can't get any better than that.

So, off we go in 100 degree heat to have a few drinks and hopefully just decompress for an hour or two.

When we got there, I still had work, problems and thoughts of my families struggles on my mind.

I wasn't expecting a miracle, just a cold beer and some time to clear my head. 

It's funny, when you least expect something to happen that's when it does.   As the music started to play to a half full bar, I was almost immediately taken back years, to a place and time that hold cherished memories for me. 

I sat there, eyes closed while a veil slowly and very gently covered me creating a feeling of complete calm.  In that instant I was on the beach, a 13 year old with my girl friends; giggling and laughing because we knew that "the boys" would be there soon.  We would, of course, be shy and coy and silly hoping that one of them would ask us to take a walk on the jetty, play in the arcade or just sit on the beach and watch the surf.  We would talk about anything and everything from dances to clothes to parents.  We knew it all at that age and we loved life.

As Harry and Billy played DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC I wasn't in that bar anymore, I was back where it was safe and I was taken care of.  I wasn't responsible for anything or anyone but myself.  My parent's took care of all the rest.  No worries.

For me, music is so beyond therapeutic.  It's like sweet lover whose only thought is to comfort and heal. 

Growing up, music was played all the time in our house.  Classical, opera and show tunes; and Johnny Cash of course.  Memories of my parents loving and sharing their passion of music with us has had a lasting effect on me, as my out of body experience at the bar proved.

My worries, fears and anxieties just drained off me like sweat on a hot summer day.  I was liberated of any thoughts that I had had just moments before.  The longer they played, the farther away from the present I got.  It was wonderful; I didn't want to come back.

I didn't realize it when I was younger, I don't think any of us do, but now, I'd give anything to go back.  To experience my youth with the knowledge of what I know now.  Nothing would be taken for granted as we as kids tend to do.

But you can't can you?  You just have to take every day as it comes and just keep going.  You need to remember that you are loved and that you aren't alone, not really. 

I am very fortunate.  I have a family that loves me.  I have friends that most people can only hope to have.  I'm loved and I know it and I am so grateful for that. 

Still, there are times in every one's life when they feel isolated, with no one to turn too.  That's when music is my only recourse.

Dramatic?  Maybe a bit. It's just been that kind of a month I guess.  I keep going, keep surviving and keep hoping that things will get better, that the people that I love will be OK and that all will be well with the world. 

When I feel the need to escape again, I know all I have to do is listen to music and I'll be taken away, even if it's just for the duration of song. 

But that's OK too.  You have to be alive to hurt, to feel sad and to grieve. 

And for that, I am so very grateful.