One great thing about living in a small town is that you actually know your doctors. You see them at church, at school activities, and at ballgames. Wonderful.
One not-so-great thing about living in a small town is that you actually know your doctors. You see them at church, at school activities, and at ballgames. Not so wonderful.
Oh, sure, you tell yourself that they’ve seen it all, and that your particular physical malady doesn’t even cross their mind when you see them in public…and you might even convince yourself of that until the Sunday you wake up and one of your breasts is five times bigger than the other one, and it’s swollen and painful and red. And you haven’t nursed a baby for nigh on eight years, so the word “mastitis” doesn’t even cross your mind, and instead you’re convinced that you’ve fallen victim to a very, very fast moving breast cancer that’s probably going to put you in the ground by Monday morning. But you make it to Monday morning, and your doctor tells you it’s a mastitis, and he drains it in the office, and you’re a big girl and don’t cry or pee your pants, but it hurts and it’s embarrassing. And you scrape your dignity off the floor (where it was laying next to your bra) and you tell yourself the little lie that this man will never remember this, and you go about your merry way. But, three months later, when you go in to the office for your annual case of bronchitis, he walks in the door and says, “Hey, how did that breast thing ever work out?” and your fantasy bubble pops, and you overthink it every single time you have to call the office about an embarrassing health issue.
But, wait, that was several, several years ago. You’d think I’d be mature enough to just deal with the embarrassment of things, wouldn’t you? You would be wrong.
So. I’ve been fighting a pesky below-the-equator issue for about a year now. I’ve sucked it up and gone in about it a couple of times, but I’ve never gotten any real resolution, so I’ve just been toughing it out. Until this last week, when things got so ugly that I told one of my girlfriends about it, and she got very pushy and…I called the doctor. When the receptionist asked who I wanted to see, I said that I really didn’t care, but I’d rather not see D****** since I know her outside of the office. Fine. They scheduled me with the newest P.A. (or N.P. or whatever she is). And I went in today. And she examined me and took a little something-something to look at under the microscope. I waited, feeling like the worst was over and I was close to getting an answer. Then the door opened, and she came back in and said that the slide was a little unclear, so she had consulted someone else in the office, and could that person just come in and take a quick look. I said that was fine. And…of course…it was D******. Of course.
I was relaying all of this at the supper table tonight…that I was happy because I felt like D****** had a handle on the issue and that I was finally going to get some relief…but that it had been a little embarrassing. Hayden agreed with me, but Jason shook his head. “Why would it be embarrassing?” he asked. “D****** is very professional.” I said that I know that she’s very professional…and very good at what she does…but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s a little weird to have someone that you actually know in real life look at all your various parts. He wasn’t buying it, though.
Until I mentioned that at least a couple of the questions I had discussed at the doctor’s office had at least a little something to do with him. Hayden and I watched as this little tidbit worked through the synapses of his brain. His face fell. Hayden and I collapsed in laughter. “But I’ll see her at church this weekend!” he protested.