Every six months or so, I go in to see the doctor for what they refer to as a ‘control’ visit. It’s basically just a check-up to be sure I’m doing okay. The visit unnerves me a bit because of its pure simplicity. The doctor talks to me, does a brief exam, talks to me a bit more, sends me home. No complicated scanning procedures or tests. But, here’s the thing, I WANT the tests. PROVE to me that I’m okay, damn it!
So, on my last control visit, I asked them if and when they would ever do some sort of additional testing or scanning. As it turns out, 2 years after the initial surgery is when they do a mammogram and thus, it was scheduled. Keep in mind that the last time I had one of these tests, it was because I had found a lump, and the day of the test went downhill quickly as my worst fears were realized. I was hoping for better results this time around.
I arrived a bit early for my test and figured I’d have to sit and wait awhile, but as it turns out, they were ready for me. Really? In a hospital? No waiting? Score! The nurse (or whatever they call the person who runs the machine) did her thing, squashing and shoving my one remaining boob between the plates to get the pictures.
I wonder, if I had to pay for any of this, would it be half price?
After the pictures were taken, I was led into the next room where the doctor would examine me, so up on the table I went. And now I had to wait. But this wait was understandable because now some doctor somewhere was looking at the pictures to make sure everything was okay. After a bit, the Doc arrived to do some ultrasound tests. I don’t know if this is something everyone gets or if I’m just special because of my history!
Up until this point, I was doing really well using my Danish and not using my English. I was quite proud of myself, that is, until the Doc said something completely incomprehensible at which point I just had to tell him, in Danish… “I cannot understand you”. Given the importance of the proceedings, there comes a time when perhaps switching to English is a good idea, and this was that moment. And then he told me, in English, what he had said…
“Your breast tissue is harmonic.”
Hmm. Really? I mean, I know I grew up with two music teachers for parents, but I had no idea their influence reached far enough to make my breast tissue harmonic! So yes, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first… my boob can sing. Top that.
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