WARNING! WOMEN ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT

Trying to get comfortable in the familiar waiting room, I brought along a hand held Yahtzee game and my latest book. The smell of antiseptic accosted my nostrils and I was surrounded by women in varying stages of pregnancy. My legs seemed to have crossed themselves with my ankles wrapped tightly around each other in a double knot.

"Nancy," the virginal Scottish nurse called to me. Nearly tripping myself by standing up too fast without unwinding my legs, I tried to gather my things of comfort; my book, my game, my planner, my purse, my keys. I finally relented and threw all of it in the purse, pasted on a smile and followed the aged Scotland Yard to the dreaded gallows.

First the scale. I pleaded silently that she'd not mention that I'd gained weight since my last visit. Then the cuff was placed securely upon my artery, and the nurse explained how she was going to get a sample of my blood now. Quickly swiping the cold alcohol square across my finger, squeezing tight, she lanced my fingertip at the same time the dreaded cuff decided it wasn't really finished reading my blood pressure and tightened again.

141/100

Seriously. Can we just let me breathe easy without having to worry about something foreign invading my space? Ah, but I already knew that was only foreshadowing.

In an examining room I quickly sat on an uncomfortable chair and resumed my double crossed legs while the nurse asked me personal questions about my cycle. When was my last period, she asked while peering over her bifocals. In a panic, I tried to remember. I just don't keep track of these things. She took the silence as an invitation to ask the next question, any possibility you're pregnant?

Humor is always a good ice breaker. I laughed, remembered my last period (ish), and allowed for another question.

"When was your last mammogram?"

Silence as she looked up again from her (my chart). Pause. She tried it again more slowly, "When wa..."

"Fine. June 2007," I replied.

"Hmm," she said. "I assume there were no alarming spots then," her charming Scottish accent was now starting to grate on my nerves. "And your family has no history of breast cancer."

Apologetically, I explained there was a spot the first time but I went back a second time where they magnified the boob squishing and decided it was a calcium deposit and had another check 6 months later and my mother had stage 4 breast cancer and why was I rambling and apologizing? Is it not my body and insurance?

The peering over her bifocals had definitely turned into a judgmental stare.

Without breaking the eye lock she opened a drawer and handed me my pitiful coverings for the rest of the exam. Flannel top with cute yellow duckies and half a sheet.

Once changed, I resumed my stoic posture on the uncomfortable chair, mimicking a pretzel.

Dr. P. is a nice elderly man whom I've known since he moved into my ward when I was a young teenager. We snickered back then at the quiet father of ten children, knowing what kind of doctor he was and vowing to NEVER, not EVER go to THAT kind of doctor from church.

Yet there I sat keenly aware of my commando wardrobe and knowing that he was the first to go where no man had ever gone before.

"Do you have any concerns," he asked as he listened to my lungs through his stethoscope and felt my pituitary glands in my neck.

"Only that my boobs are now down to my belly button. What's new with you?" Bad timing on my part since he was finished with the easy checks and started the breast exam.

"This may not be the best of times to say it, but I love the small breasted woman. You're looking just fine," he said.

I realize in retrospect that I should have been insulted by his hand on my breast while telling me I'm looking good but all I could sputter was, "What do you mean, small breasted?"

Next came the pap smear where the non-smiling Scot was summoned. "She hasn't had a mammogram in three years," she whispered loud enough so I could hear, "and her mother had breast cancer." (Un?)Fortunately, the good doctor wasn't paying much attention since he was up to his elbows checking my uterus.

"Probably because I enjoy this experience so much more!" I whispered back to her.

Ten minutes later, I carefully surveyed myself in the mirror. My black shirt was tied a little too high, my belt secured a little too tight, I tucked my hair behind my ears, and walked out to the nurses station where the good doctor was making his notes.

"Do I look respectable?" I asked the office staff and nurses standing around. They wearily nodded that I did. "Because I feel defiled and violated."

I can hardly wait for my mammogram.

Hold me.