First, some history.

It was the summer before I started kindergarten when we met for the first time. Like any five year old on a hot day, I was running around my yard in my bathing suit, leaping gleefully through my parents’ garden sprinkler.  The sun was getting dangerously low in the sky– the time of day when my parents’ announcement that it was time to go inside was imminent– when I saw her down the street.  She was too far away for me to see her face, but I could tell that she was about my age and that she was looking at me too. Wondering who I was.

I’m not a particularly religious person, but it was like we were fated to have met that night– like God looked down and saw these two little girls and thought “These two need each other.” Maggie, as I’ll call her, had just moved to my neighborhood, and miraculously, she was the same age and was going to be in my kindergarten class, and we would be riding the school bus together.

From that day on, we were pretty much inseparable.  Long afternoon sessions of My Little Pony and Barbies, arts and crafts, preparing ourselves for a world without training wheels… learning to swim…swapping our favorite books. Before we knew it we were full-fledged pre-teens stressing over acne and our first tubes of lipstick, fiercely competing for better grades though we never would admit it, even to ourselves…

Then, in high school,  “it” happened. The details aren’t important. It had to do with a boy, as these things almost often  do.  And suddenly we weren’t just “growing apart”; we were headed our own separate ways.  Without each other.  Sure we were still friends; we had countless heart to hearts about it; we cried, we hugged. We were over it, we said.  We never meant to hurt each other.  It was silly. It wasn’t worth it.

But things were never the same.  Maybe we weren’t over it, really, and we just thought we were. Maybe we needed more time than we were willing to give ourselves.

But time had other plans. Soon, we were off to college. Different colleges, in different states. A fresh start for each of us. Maybe it was good.

Now, somehow, ten years have gone by since we went off to school, and Maggie, my best friend forever and ever, isn’t really a part of my life.

I went to her wedding three years ago. (In case you’re wondering, she didn’t marry him, and neither did I.)  It’s funny how things work out.  I always imagined that I’d be her maid of honor; that I’d be arranging her train and holding her bouquet as she said her vows.  I wasn’t.  I wasn’t there the night before, giggling with her and drinking champagne on her final night as a single woman.  When she walked down the aisle, arm in arm with her new husband,  I realized that I would have to introduce myself to him.  That I would tell him my name and he would shake my hand, placing me, without a thought, in some vague drawer in his memory with the names of people whose lives at some point intersected with his bride’s. Nothing.

These realizations stung, and they still do, almost three years later.  But even though my part in Maggie’s wedding day wasn’t what I imagined at 6, or even 16, I was still there.  In some small way, I still got to share in this momentous occasion in her life.  I got to see her all dolled up– beautiful, and glowingly happy. I hope that at some moment, she thought what I thought: that I was there, and that I will always be here, even if we’re not exactly the women we thought we’d grow up to be.

I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that we don’t get to pick what happens to us, who we become. It’s ok.  We may not have the present, or even the future, but we had, and will always have, our childhood, our adolescence– the good times and the tough ones.  We share beautiful memories. And she will always be a part of who I have become.

In any case, where I was really going with this was that last week, while I was off on a business trip, my mom called to let me know that Maggie is pregnant with her first child. My heart felt like someone skipping a rock across the surface of a lake. Skip, skip, sink.

I lay awake for a while in my hotel room bed, just mulling. Funny how I got giddy for a second– how I wanted to call her and ask her what it feels like, how she found out, is she afraid, what will she name him/her. And in the next second, I realized we don’t have that kind of relationship anymore.  We’re not going to talk for hours and hours about it. I’m not going to be there when she has this baby.  I am not a part of her life.

And it stings. Even though I have other friends– great friends for whom I will throw bridal and baby showers, and whose babies I will kiss and cuddle and love.  Suddenly, it seems, we are really, really adults, Maggie and I, only we’re not adults together.

Every once and a while, someone says to me, “Just call her.” As if, you know, our lives are like a Nicholas Sparks’ novel. I’ll pick up the phone and she’ll answer and she’ll somehow know why I’m calling and there’ll be a thick, emotional pause, and she’ll say “I’ve missed you so much.” And we’ll cry and it will be like none of “it” ever happened.

Maybe I will call her.  Sure things will never be the way they were, but maybe that’s good.  Maybe we could have a brand new friendship.  Maybe.  But then there’s a part of me that says “Let it be.” She’s happy, she’s moved on, and so should I. Grow up, already, Anonymiss. She doesn’t need you. You don’t need her.  Stop being so sentimental all the time. Enough.

So I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe there isn’t one.

For now, I just hope that Maggie’s happier than ever, and that this baby brings her and her husband all the joy in the world. Maybe, in five or six years, that little baby will be off playing in their yard, sharing secrets with his/her newfound best friend, dreaming of all the things they will do when they’re “grown-ups”, and and Maggie will smile knowingly, happily, and think of her old best friend.

I must be the only person in the world who is not enchanted by Kate’s look. Don’t get me wrong. She’s beautiful. She’s glowing. She’s adorable.  But really? The whole fashion universe wanted the honor of designing that dress, and that’s what got picked?

I hate the front.  Either the darts aren’t laying right, or she’s not wearing a decent bra. I can’t decide. But it just lays funny, and the V makes it worse because it draws attention to it. And why on earth does she have to wear sleeves in the first place? Pippa’s not wearing sleeves, for Pete’s sakes! (More on Pippa in a second.)

Also, I hate the veil. It’s like slightly more elegant than the cheesecloth I put on my turkey last Thanksgiving (excepting the pretty lacy stuff at the ends.)

And Kate, darling, you always have such beautiful, long, sleek, glossy, feathery, voluminous layers; you remind me of one of those chicks in the shampoo commercials. It’s gorgeous. I would kill to walk around with my hair looking like that.  But today your hair looks like mine used to look when, for my ballet recitals, my mom spent inordinate amounts of time trying to curl it into elaborate ringlets and then hair sprayed it…. aaaand it went hopelessly limp on the car ride over.  The guys that did your hair are adorable, but I think that you should fire them for this one. Sorry. You are so much prettier than this!

Also could they have spared a few more flowers for your bouquet?

As for Pippa, she looks, well, stunning.  Not to sound like a bridezilla, but I would never ever EVER let my sister go to my wedding in a white dress, esp. a white dress prettier than mine. (Which reminds me, who wears white to someone else’s wedding anyway?) Sure, the scoop neck was a little much (poor Harry will never live down those wandering eyes), but she looks gorgeous. Love the dress, love the hair, love the smile as she escorts the adorable flower girls in. (They, by the way, are allowed to wear white.) Brava, Pippa.

As for William’s cousins, Beatrice and Eugenie, I nearly had a heart attack. They look like Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters! It’s like they tried to upstage Kate and Pippa, but instead are now the laughing stock of the entire world.  I actually kind of think Beatrice’s dress would make a super pretty dress coat and that she might look classy without the psychotic bow-on-crack stapled to her forehead.  And without the eyeliner.  It’s like she used a Sharpie. As for Eugenie, it looks like she went to a costume shop looking for something to wear for Once Upon a Mattress, and then at the last minute decided the skirt was too long so she faux hemmed it with duct tape in the limo. Which is cute… if you’re  four and playing dress up with Lady Gaga.

All right. That’s enough for now. Don’t hate me. I’m opinionated. I can’t help it.

But putting the 80s toy box aside, I’m very nostalgic about my childhood and adolescence, which, in spite of the various ups and downs, I really do now regard as a “golden era” of sorts…a time when I believed Prince Charming and Happily-Ever-After were in fact “out there waiting”… a time when I believed if I worked hard in school and was a good person, I would be more-or-less guaranteed success and happiness in adulthood… a time when…well, ok. I think you get it.

In addition to toting this nostalgia for all things “young”…. these days I refuse (rather adamantly) to join the ranks of “real grownups” by getting married, tackling the real estate market in search of the perfect “first” home, getting pregnant (and presumably, posting my ultrasound pictures and “mommy questions” to Facebook), and otherwise devoting myself to being the perfect, devoted wife and mommy.  As I am frequently reminded my well-being relatives, I did recently hit the big 2-8, after all. Don’t I want to settle down?

Sure. Eventually. But it’s a terrifying, overwhelming prospect.  I feel like I’m going to lose my identity. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to say that “real grown-ups” (as I so lovingly call them) are boring or anything, but I really think I might die if I become the kind of person who tells people how my weekend was in terms of the progress of my basement renovation project… or,  even worse, if I start referring to myself as a SAHM and assuming everyone knows what the acronym means…) …I just don’t want to lose me.  I feel like I’ve just barely figured out who I am, and, frankly, sometimes I’m not even sure I’ve really got it down.  Shouldn’t I focus on that before I start a new, much bigger chapter?

I know, I’ve said all this before…same story different day. What I’ve been thinking about lately, though, is the coexistence and/or interrelationship of my inner-child and my refusal to “grow up.” Is it because I love my inner child so much that I’m refusing to “grow up”l? Is it, as a friend recently suggested, simply that I’m simply unhappy with my current “almost-grown-up-and-married” domestic setup, and therefore don’t want to think about  making it permanent?  Is it both?

Today I was talking to an old friend from high school who has, in the ten years since we graduated, settled comfortably into the role of faithful husband and doting daddy. We were having a “do you remember when” conversation on Facebook, and just before he signed off, he said something that gave me a moment’s pause.

“I sometimes wonder if it is possible to get the free spirit back we used to have…or are we just too old and have too many responsibilities?”

He went offline before I could reply.

This struck me as interesting…even funny. He was the guy who did great in school but never obsessed about his grades. At seventeen, he didn’t define the bulk of his self-worth upon his grades and SAT scores.  And there I was, obsessing about the 98 instead of a 99 I was going to get in English, because the 99 would boost my class rank more, and I wanted to get into Princeton.  He made me realize I had to let my own “free spirit” out more often– I had to stop obsessing about where I wanted to go to college and what I wanted to be and some take the time to be young and spontaneous.

I guess I didn’t realize we were supposed to take time to be young and spontaneous while we still could…in other words, then, and not so much now. Because here we are ten years later,  and he’s telling me that he’s nostalgic for that “free spirit” of yesteryear that I, of all people– the “reformed goody-two-shoes”– am holding onto for dear life, while he’s gone and “grown-up.”

Isn’t it funny how life goes?

Do we have to give it up, though? Really? Can’t we jump in the car and go barreling down some lone country road with the windows rolled down and our radio blaring? Can’t we dress up in 80s garb and sing karaoke till 2 in the morning? Do we have to sit at home all the time, making Ina Garten’s latest recipe, sipping red wine and discussing (thoughtfully) how it has opened up in the half hour since we began discussing the housing crisis?

I can put away my Carebear figurines and pretend I don’t know the words to the Captain Planet theme song, but I’m not going to stop being goofy and silly and spontaneous when the mood strikes me.  I simply cannot. And I’m afraid of what would happen to me if I tried.  Maybe I’ll “grow up” eventually, but something tells me my inner child will be coming along for the ride.

I sighed, not sure whether to be amused or what. There were like five other women sitting there, too, also not looking especially thrilled to be there, but equally sucked into the movie. Nervous, and, I guess, hoping for solidarity of some sort, I managed not to say something like, “So, what fun thing are you here for?”, but instead tried to strike up a conversation with the lady sitting across from me about whether I should rent the movie to see the rest of it. “Oh, you haven’t seen this one yet?” she said. “It’s a tear-jerker!”

They even have pink pens.

Still, the place is super quiet, impersonal, and sterile. And to make matters worse, the women behind the counter look especially unfriendly.

The second time I was there, to get my “ultrasound-guided biopsy” (since the first ultrasound revealed I have a small but distinct solid mass, not an easily-drained, fluid-filled cyst) I borrowed the bathroom key before my procedure. I’m just returning it to the counter when Miss Cranky Pants looks over and says “Actually you can just stay up here, Ms. Anonymiss. I’m going to need you to fill out this paperwork.”

“Oh, ok, no problem,” I say, a bit taken back at her total lack of friendliness (I’m about to get a biopsy to see if I have cancer, for Pete’s sakes).  She says something like “Fill this out, this out, and this out and sign here, here, and here” and kinda chucks the forms and a pen on the counter. I hesitate for a second thinking she’s going to give me a clipboard so I can go sit down and fill them out, but she stares straight at me like I’m a complete moron, so I start filling out the forms at the counter. I feel like I’m under a magnifying glass as she stands there, waiting.

“Oops,” I murmur after a few seconds, noticing that I was starting to sign my name where it shouldn’t be. I cross it out and continue.

“Is there a problem?” she says sharply, catching me by surprise. I feel like I’m about six years old and just got caught talking during a lesson. (Been there, done that.)

“Hmm? Oh, no, I’m fine,” I say, kind of embarrassed.  “It’s just early, you know, haven’t had my coffee yet, and I was signing in the wrong place.” I smile at her and go back to the form, hoping that’s the end of this conversation.

“You do need to sign there, ma’am. That’s saying we can release your protected health information to your insurance.”

“Oh, I thought that was here,” I say. “Oh! So I guess I was right the first time. ” She looks at me, completely unimpressed. “Do I also sign here?” I ask, wishing I could just get something right already.

She kinda half rolls her eyes so I know that she thinks I’m completely incompetent. “Yes, you also sign there.”

“Great,” I squeak, hoping I don’t sound too inauthentic. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“No. You can sit in that chair and wait until I call you, and then you can meet me at the door.”

At the door? Oh my God. This woman is going to be my nurse? I think she might kill me!

After a minute or so sitting in my pink chair, she calls my name, and I grab my stuff as quickly as possible (so she doesn’t have to wait) and head for the door. She leads me to this little room with more pink chairs and five little changing stalls and says that I should go into one , put on a gown so it’s open in the front and take my clothes with me when I’m finished.

I obey. These gowns are ugly, and not especially comfortable. And this one smells a little funny. But whatever. At least they are cotton and not crunchy paper.

As I step out of the changing stall, I realize she didn’t tell me what to do next. Or maybe she did but I didn’t catch it. Great, Anonymiss. Really setting the world on fire today, aren’t we?

I stumble down the hall and see her moving stuff around in one of the exam rooms. She looks up at me, again, with total disdain.

“Yes?” she says simply, like “Oh no you DIDN’T just show up without my calling you.”

“Oh,” I say dumbly. “Did you…did you want me to wait in the chairs? I wasn’t sure.”

“Yes, I’ll come get you when we’re ready.”

“Ok, great, thanks,” I say, scurrying back to the chairs.  I sit back down and try to pull myself together. This is going to be ok. Just get it over with. (But seriously, thanks a lot for your compassion, lady!)

She finally calls me, and I take a deep breath and follow her to the ultrasound room, where she tells me to lay down on the table next to the machine. Then she starts pulling stuff out of the cabinets and putting it on one of those “surgical trays”, which, frankly, always give me the heebie jeebies, even though it’s mostly just bandages, etc., sitting on what could probably be a cookie sheet if it weren’t “sterile.” She also pulls up the ultrasound of my lump on the screen, which I decide is somehow less scary to look at than the tray. (That may or may not be because there’s now something on it that looks strikingly like a syringe.)

I crack a small joke about how excited I am about this whole thing, and she actually chuckles for a second. Thank God. Pathetic as this sounds, I feel instantly less panicked. (Really.)

Stop reading if you don’t want to know about how biopsies work.

I’m especially grateful for her chuckle, because next she starts explaining to me that the doctor will use the ultrasound to find the lump, then he’ll give me an injection in the area to numb it. Eeeeek. “You’ll feel a little pinch, and then some stinging as it sets in.” She goes on to talk about how he’ll  stick a needle in and use the ultrasound machine to help him take small pieces from different parts of the lump.

Of course, I’m still back at the part where she mentioned the injection before I’m numbed.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, realizing I sound pathetic, but going for it anyway. I can’t be that much wussier than ever other woman who’s ever been here, right?

Instantly, she says, “No, because he’ll numb you.”

Nice try.

“No, no, I mean, the needle he uses to numb me.”

“Oh. It feels like getting Novocaine, like when you have a cavity.”

I ponder this for a second. Right, because I’m sure getting a needle in my breast is going to feel like getting a needle in my gum.

“Ok. So it’s like…a pinch, and then stinging?” I manage. She nods.

“Just for a few seconds.”

I take another deep breath, and try to be cool as she announces she’ll be right back with the doctor. I lay back and try to focus on something on the ceiling. (Kinda wish they put a picture up there or something. I’ve seen that before and thought it was silly, but I could totally use to stare at a picture of a puppy right now.)

The doctor (a man, not a a woman, but frankly, I don’t even care anymore) is a bit cheery for someone at work at just after seven in the morning on a Friday for purposes of pulling chunks of tissue out of people to see if they have cancer. But, you know, maybe that’s just my opinion.  He does do this every day, or close. (Not to sound weird, but what kind of person would want to do this?)

He pulls a tube of jelly from the ultrasound machine, which, I notice to my amusement is actually warm on my skin. No kidding. Ultrasound machines have jelly warmers now? For some reason I want to laugh.

But then my lump pops up on the screen. (“There it is!” the doctor announces), and starts getting ready to numb me. Normally I like to watch when people take my blood or give me shots or whatever (it makes me feel a little more in control), but I make a split second decision that I really really do not want to see this. Instead, I watch for the needle on the ultrasound. This is actually kind of cool.

And it does hurt for a tiny second, and there’s another second of kind of like a burning/stinging feeling, but actually, it’s really not that bad, at all. I think it hurt less than getting Novocaine in my gums. I guess it is fatty tissue…right? Whatever.  I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Next, he tells me that he doesn’t want me to freak out, but the thing he’s going to use to pull out the samples makes a clicking noise. “Kinda like a staple gun!” he says jovially, demonstrating the sound. I don’t look. It does sound like a staple gun.

“Oh great!” I say. “That’s lovely!”

“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt,” he says kindly. “The only thing is you’ll probably feel it moving around in there while I’m getting it in place.”

Seriously??

Luckily, I don’t know if my nerve endings suck or if that numbing stuff was just really good, but I don’t feel anything at all. I just lay there and watch, mesmerized, as the needle moves around inside me and CLACK, he pops the staple gun to pull out a piece. I jump at the sound, but realize (with satisfaction) that I don’t feel a darn thing. He does this about three more times, and announces he’s done. Yay!

Because I’m curious, I ask him to show me the “staple gun”, which really is enormous. That needle must be as wide as spaghetti.  “Holy moly,” I gasp. “Definitely glad I didn’t see that before. “

“Gee, I can’t imagine why,” he says, obviously amused.

We chat for another minute or two, and then he promises to call me personally as soon as the results come in.  “I really don’t think you have anything to worry about, but I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

I am so relieved that it’s over– and that he’s reiterated that he thinks it’ll be ok.  As for “Ms. Cranky Pants”– I’m taking it back.  She’s mellowed. (Then again, so have I.)  She bandages me up and explains how I should take care of myself for the next couple of days. She also tells me she thinks that if the doctor thought I had something to worry about, he would’ve told me “straight out.”

It’s funny. I was afraid of her before, but now I could hug her.  I can’t help myself, so I gush about how relieved I am that the whole biopsy thing is over, and I tell her to have a great weekend and a wonderful holiday.

=-=

But the very best part about the whole thing??

The doctor did call me a few days later, and he said that the lump is a fibroadenoma, like they thought, and that it’s benign.

Benign. THANK GOD.

Of course, I had (and still have) lots of questions I wanted to ask him, but when he said that I was ok, I swear, my mind went blank, and all I could think of was how lucky I am.  Honestly.

I’ve officially lost my “It couldn’t happen to me” feeling that we all have a little bit of (even if we won’t admit it) but that just might be a good thing.  Of course, am I thankful for the experience? Not especially. But I sure am thankful that it was a wake-up call, and not a scary diagnosis.

=-=-

To those of you who’ve actually read all this stuff I’ve written about this experience, thanks for “being there.”  It was a tough call whether to write about it or not, especially since it’s super personal, and yeah, maybe a little “TMI.” But in the end, I decided I wanted to. Partly for my own sanity, yes. Partly because if anyone who’s going through something similar sees this and it could make them feel better, it will have been totally worth it as far as I’m concerned.

Also, I’m frankly sick and tired of people being so hush hush all the time about things that happen all the time but seem to be too personal to talk about.  We’ll all go buy pink visors and coffee cups for “the cure”, and we’ve all heard the talks about doing self-exams and getting regular mammograms and all that, but God forbid it actually get personal.

I do realize that I’m annoyingly talkative, particularly when I’m nervous, but something about sitting in a room with a bunch of women all there to get their breasts checked, and then in a second waiting area full of women sitting there in gowns, probably all worried about the same thing…well…it strikes me as sad that none of us can make eye contact, let alone crack a joke about the “joys” of womanhood.  No?

Anyway, the end.

So! I took those papers and went back to the scheduling desk, where they asked me which doctor I was told I should see in two weeks. “Well, I guess one of them, since they know what’s going on,” I say.

The receptionist tap tap taps on the computer but says neither Dr. New Guy nor Dr. Hot Shot have their schedules available for that week yet. (As for the ultrasound, I have to go down to radiology and schedule it. Since I have to get back to the office and I’m anticipating a monster line,  I say I’ll call instead)

Early the following week, I call back the office to schedule my appointment with either Dr. New Guy or Dr. Hot Shot. (I know, I should’ve called immediately when I got back to my office, but I didn’t think it’d be THAT huge of a deal. Or maybe I just KNEW it would be a hassle…Hmm..)

I tell the person in the “call center” (yup, seriously. They call it their general medicine “call center”)  that I was told at my appointment to come back in two weeks, so I’d like to schedule an appointment for next week.  I spell my name and my address and dole out my date of birth, and then she asks who my primary care doctor is.  I say “Dr. Never Met Her.” (Ok I didn’t really say that but I really haven’t met her.  Ever. And I’ve been going to this place for five years.)

She says I can see one of Mr. Never Met Her’s residents in about two weeks. I say I’d rather not wait three weeks since the docs I saw recommended two, and that actually, I’d rather see one of them when I come back since they are already familiar with what’s going on. The receptionist rather haughtily announces that it shouldn’t matter who I see and that it won’t have been three full weeks since my first appointment (it’s about 2 days less.)  When I sigh and sound unhappy with this, she says that she’ll ask Dr. Never Met Her if  she thinks I need to come in earlier for a recheck.

Are you kidding me? I feel like screaming at this woman. I don’t CARE what Dr. Never Met Her thinks. I’ve NEVER MET HER. I want to SEE SOMEONE who KNOWS WHO I AM AND WHAT THIS THING IS AND WILL KNOW IF IT HAS CHANGED AT ALL. AND I WANT TO DO IT NEXT WEEK! IF YOU HAD SOMETHING IN YOU THAT MIGHT BE CANCER AND COULD SPREAD ALL OVER YOUR BODY AND KILL YOU, WOULD YOU WANT TO WAIT?

Fortunately, I somehow restrain myself, reminding myself that this woman is probably overworked, underpaid, and under-appreciated by the people she answers to. I try to explain, calmly, that I’d really like to see the same doctors and in the amount of time they specified, because, you know, I have a lump in my breast.  She snaps.

“I hear what you are saying, but we have a protocol here. You have to see your primary care doctor first. That’s our protocol.”

“Fine,” I say coolly, trying not to sound too sulky as I accept the appointment and give her my phone number so she can call me back after she gets Dr. Never Met Her to say that I can wait an extra week.

And then something occurs to me.

I hang up and do something I should’ve done in the first place- something pretty obvious that I would recommend you do if you’re ever in these shoes. I called my OB-GYN’s office. I explained that I had been to my GP, but was scared and wanted a follow-up, and was there any way they could squeeze me in in the next week or so…

… and you know what they said??

“No problem. Can you be here tomorrow morning at 8:30?”

Seriously. That’s what they said. Hallelujah.

Also, once I was there, there was no awkwardness, no weirdo teachable moments, no comments like  “Wait a few weeks, and by the way it could totally be cancer.”

Here’s how it went. The GYN came in the room, took about 30 seconds to check it out, and said “Yeah, I don’t think this is cancer. I’ve unfortunately felt a lot of breast cancers and this feels like a cyst or something. So I’m going to give you a referral to this radiology place. Tell them you need an ultrasound in two weeks.  If you have any problems, have them call me. Here is my number. Don’t worry. I really don’t think it’s cancer.”

And then he answered all of my questions, without patronizing me. It was a miracle.

So yeah. Breast lump? I’m not trying to diss your GP–maybe he or she is fantastic– but frankly, call your GYN, not your GP. Even if it is another DC megapractice with kajillions of women sitting in the waiting room at 7:30 in the morning and a person whose sole responsibility (it seems) is calling people up to her desk to collect copays.

Also, not to get all “Yay prevention and early detection” and “Take control of your own health” or whatever,  but seriously ladies, try to find a good GYN in DC if you don’t have one already. Grab the bull by the horns (forgive the expression) and invest some time in your health, because, frankly, no one’s going to do it for you.

Find a GYN that doesn’t make you feel especially tremendously awkward (because let’s face it, it’s always going to be awkward when someone you don’t know is not only asking you about your sex life but also checking out your goods). Find one that doesn’t patronize you, and find one that takes the time to answer your questions, because damnit, you’re not an idiot and you are, after all, paying them for their time.

I just have never been so grateful I bothered to find a good doctor when I didn’t need one, but just thought it’d be good to have one.

As for my situation, I made myself an appointment ten minutes later for the ultrasound. And my doctor’s office, of its own accord, sent over an “order” for it without my calling and leaving forty messages or talking to six different receptionists.

A few hours after I got back from my appointment, I noticed I had a voicemail.  She talked to Dr. Never Met Her, and Dr. Never Met Her said coming back in two weeks to see one of her residents would be fine.

So I did what any normal, bottom-of-the-totem-pole young person living in a major Metropolitan area would do:  I went to work the next day, abandoned my cube, snuck into an unmanned office with my cell phone, shut the door, and dialed my humongous medical-plex style doctor’s office to make an Urgent Care appointment.

After hitting several menu buttons and waiting on hold for about five minutes (which isn’t bad for early in the week, actually), someone picks up, asks me my name, my date of birth, and has me spell out my entire address (including my zip code). Then she asks me when I want to come in. I say ASAP.

“Ummmm….I don’t have anything today. Tomorrow?”

“I’d really rather not wait.”

“Why do you want to come in?”

“Well, I appear to have a lump in my breast.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Yeah, so I’m kind of freaking out right now. You know? I don’t know what it is or why it’s there…”

About a minute later, she concedes that someone can see me around 3, and reminds me cordially not to forget my insurance card, photo identification, and copayment.  Hoorah! Sister solidarity! (Sort of.)

So I show up. And after telling my best friend that if a male resident walks in with a medical student, I’ll throw a fit, I find myself sitting on an exam table when some guy walks in. He says “Hi Anonymiss” and introduces himself as Dr. New Guy (obviously, not really, but that’s what I’m going to call him.)

(I don’t mean to be difficult, but Dr. New Guy is about five years older than me. Max. Absolute max.  If I have to call him “Dr.”  New Guy, couldn’t he at least call me Ms. Anonymiss? Anyway. Whatever.  Did I mention he’s a guy?)

Since I don’t feel like being difficult, I suck it up.  Dr. New Guy calmly explains to me that he is going to go get his attending, Dr. Hot Shot, and the two of them will conduct a breast exam together to avoid repetition. I agree, realizing that they’re not trusting this young gun to catch breast cancers yet.

So I sit tight for a couple minutes until there’s a knock on the door.

Observation Number 1: Dr. Hot Shot is also a man. Of course.

Observation Number 2: Dr. Hot Shot is visibly psyched that he has this textbook teachable moment to share with Dr. New Guy.

After introducing himself to me and washing his hands in front of me (a gesture I actually appreciate this time of year, even if it’s conspicuously written on those hand washing suggestion cards for doctors and no doctors ever seem to do it), Dr. Hot Shots turns to Dr. New Guy and says something to the effect of  “Dr. New Guy, would you like to explain what we’re going to do today?” Dr. New Guy gives me the 411: they need to check this thing out. They then leave me to strip from the waist up and put on one of those gynormous faux gowns that are actually made of paper, and an extra paper blanket.  Then they conspicuously pull a curtain around the door so no one will see me when they open the door. (I find all this kind of silly.  I don’t really need privacy to “change” when I’m just going to strip anyway. But I guess I should be happy they’re sensitive?)

About two minutes later, they come in, and announce that the first thing they want to do is look at both breasts together to see if they look different.  I consider making a crack about this and telling them I’m going to make their day or something, but manage to keep a straight face as I pull open the faux gown.

And then, there I am, watching as two men silently, but not at all inconspicuously, stare at  my chest- for a good minute.  (Seriously, not snorting with laughter was difficult.) Finally, they pronounce that they don’t see anything, so Dr. New Guy starts putting on rubber gloves to do an exam.

“Actually,” says Dr. Hot Shot, “I suggest you do the exam without gloves, so you can get a better feel.” (Again, I try not to laugh. What am I, twelve?)

Dr. New Guy looks visibly embarrassed that he did not think of this himself, and he quickly sheds the gloves and asks me if I would please lay down and tuck my arms under my head. I almost feel sorry for him.  It’s like he’s taking a test. A super awkward test at that.  He rather apologetically pulls back one side of my gown…

I cannot believe this is happening to me.

Now they are both standing there, discussing how conducting a breast exam can be done via different techniques… like I care…and then it gets eerily quiet, as if they expect my lump to emit sonar or something.

“Is this what you feel?” Dr. New Guy says finally, sounding a bit relieved that he found something.

“Yup,” I say, realizing I was sort of hoping he’d say “Well, maybe you HAD a lump yesterday, but now you don’t!”

“Oh, well, that could be a little lymph node.”

I don’t say anything, but I can tell he’s looking at Dr. Hot Shot to see if he noticed that he memorized those lymphatic system diagrams. He carefully covers that boob up and switches to the other, nothing (a little smugly, I might add) that he feels something similar on the other side.

(In spite of myself, I’ve suddenly gone from wishing that he wouldn’t be able to find it to hoping that Dr. Hot Shot tells this guy he’s done a crap job.  Just ’cause I don’t like  Dr. New Guy insinuating that I’m paranoid.)

Dr. Hot Shot says ok, it’s his turn, and begins demonstrating his slightly different breast examination methodology. (Again, like I care.)  He finds the spot, says something scholarly like “Hmmm” and then announces in his best teacher voice that he understands why Dr. New Guy felt something similar on the other side, but that on this side the bump is “much more defined.”  Perhaps a little too quickly, Dr. New Guy agrees.  “Yeah, it was more pronounced.”

I feel like being like “HA!”…when it occurs to me that two doctors  just confirmed I have a lump in my breast that’s not obviously a lymph node or..you know, nothing.

So they cover me back up, tell me I can sit up, and, relieved that that’s all done with and I’m back to being a person instead of a pair of boobs, I say something like “Well? What is it? And where would it come from? And why do I have it?”

Ah ha. But now I’m “frightened patient in need of reassurance.”

Dr. Hot Shot smiles knowingly like he’s just eating up this opportunity to exhibit his bedside manner, nods, and says “Dr. New Guy, would you like to answer that?”

(I’m sort of back to feeling sorry for the guy at this point.)

Dr. New Guy starts explaining that I’m young, with no real family history of breast cancers, so it is highly unlike that I have cancer.  Dr. Hot Shot nods like he’s checking boxes off his “What to say to young upset female with breast lump” checklist.

“Well that’s good,” I say. “But what is it?”

Dr. Hot Shot looks at Dr. New Guy expectantly. (Ugh.)

“Well, it’s possible that it is a cyst, or a small growth caused by hormone fluctuations, in which case, it could just go away.”

Dr. Hot Shot nods again.

“But breast cancer is still totally on the table.”

Dr. Hot Shot stops nodding for a second, and I know he’s making a mental note to tell Dr. New Guy after I’ve gone that he probably shouldn’t say things like “But breast cancer is still totally on the table” to frightened women with breast lumps.

“So, what do we do now?” I say.

Dr. New Guy starts fumbling on about how they will make detailed notes in my medical record about this, and that I should come back in about two weeks and they can look at it again. He says they try to balance early intervention with subjecting patients to unnecessary medical procedures. The next step, if needed, would be a referral for an ultrasound.

“But, is it really a good idea to wait?” I ask, finding myself looking not at Dr. New Guy, but at Dr. Hot Shot, even if he is a little smug.  (Don’t judge me! I can’t help it. The guy actually appears to know what he’s doing, and like it or not, I’m the helpless patient in this situation.) “If it’s cancer, I don’t really want to sit and let it grow for two weeks before I come back, and then wait another two weeks for an ultrasound appointment.”

Seizing the opportunity to demonstrate good things to say to calm a distressed patient, Dr. Hot Shot starts out by saying, “If you were my sister…” (nice one!) …”I would say it’s a good idea to wait a couple of weeks and see what happens.  In two weeks, it may just disappear. Let’s make a follow-up appointment in two weeks. Would you also like us to give you a referral for an ultrasound appointment in three weeks, so you can book it, and then cancel it if you don’t end up needing it??”

Awww. They’re placating me. And I’m takin’ it.

“Yes, actually; I think that’s a good plan.”

Yeah, well… so what? We all do! Doesn’t everyone I know like that stuff too?

Oh.

I thought about being offended even though I get that it’s satire and that it’s exaggerated and intended to evoke a response.

Still, I kind of have that feeling you get when someone calls you out on something, and even though you never thought of it quite the way they just said it, you can’t really say “That’s not it.” Know what I mean?

Suddenly, I’ve got some concerns.

1. Should I be worried that I’m shallow and/or conformist?

2. Have “white upper-middle class twenty something” social mores so completely pervaded my brain that I am essentially programmed to “ooh” and “aah” when I hear about a linen sale at Pottery Barn, an Impressionist exhibit at the Met, or a brand-new NoVA winery?

Basically, what if everything I value, everything I see as important, everything I want and everything I strive to be are, in fact,  adopted wants, needs, and desires that I’ve “soaked” up from the world I’ve grown up in? And what if it’s all…well…crap? What if it doesn’t mean anything at all?

I overthink things sometimes, so I’m trying to sort of laugh this off…I mean after all, if I LIKE striving to feel “cultured”, and it makes me happy to read classic novels or the New York Times, or watch the TED Talks, who cares if my reason for doing that is socially-constructed. Right?

Except I feel like I’m living in the Matrix, or that I’m a Stepford Wife, or something. Thanks so much, Stuff White People Like.

I am lucky enough to have people in my life who support me and put up with me in spite of my constant wallowing, and I don’t know how they can stand it. I mean, you know, sometimes i’m ok… If I don’t think too hard… but at moments like these, I feel utterly lost. I’ll be ok… I’ll keep going…. but why…. why can I not seem to muster the strength to acknowledge that this isn’t working? That even if it’s my “fault”– even if Im too snippy and too sensitive– I’m also just not happy? Ok, I guess I’m acknowledging it, sort of. But why can’t I be? Why can’t this work? Why can’t this be right? And why can’t I just accept reality, cut my losses and start over?

Obviously, I’m scared. But I’m a fighter, dammit! Always have been. And so I hate myself for being so damn pathetic. For doing what I would kill my friends for doing, and knowing it all too well.

Sigh. Blah blah blah… I’ve said this all before…same thing dif day.

But God… If you’re out there… throw me a line, because I got lost somewhere out here, and I need help pulling myself out…

(And if you don’t understand the reference, well– shame on you )

‘Nuff said.