The Facts of Life (Dateline August, 2005)

Ok ladies…. it’s your turn to gripe. All you guys go get a beer and sit out on the front porch.

Now, let’s talk about the facts of life. No, not that life. The behind-the-scenes maintenance that allows you to have that life. You know, the stuff you gotta do when your husband is off doing something more fun…like getting a prostate check.

As I think back on it now, I’m sure my mom, or some other woman in my life, told me that pap smears get easier with age. Wrong! They just get more ridiculous. How many of you have been through childbirth – raise your hands. Ok, how many of you have been through it more than once - raise your hands. Ok, now how many of you had any modesty left over after the baby was born, raise your hands…. thought so. The two are just incompatible. Once you’ve had a football team of medical personnel staring at your nether regions modesty just seems silly.

So let’s talk about having an “Annual Exam”. First, the only people I know who call it a Pap Smear is the secretary at the OB/GYN office. I don’t know about you, but when I’m at work that’s not what I call it. I mean face it - I work in an office full of men, and trying to make a private phone call in my office never works. Ever notice that the office gets really quiet the minute you pick up the phone and want to say something personal? You can almost hear them listening, or in my case, almost feel the wind blow by from all the ear flapping that’s going on. Here I am, hunched over the phone, trying to have a private conversation with the doctor’s secretary, and it usually goes something like this:

Dr.’s Office: “Hello, Dr. Icy Finger’s office, Please Hold. (10 minutes later) Are you still there? Didn’t give up, huh? Ok, what can I do for you?”

Me: “Hi, this is me. I need to make an appointment for a mumble mumble mumble…”

DO: “What dear? Speak up, I can’t hear you”

Me: “I need to make an appointment for my annual mumble, mumble, mumble…”

DO: “I’m sorry dear, one more time…. what sort of annual exam did you want to schedule?”

Me: “A mumble mumble mumble…”

DO: “I’m sorry, an annual WHAT??”

Me: “A Pap Smear! I need to schedule a PAP SMEAR!”

DO: “Oh, sure, no problem. Let’s see, the doctor is off on vacation until December, then he has a conference through January…hmmm…will next February 14th work for you? Say around noon?

So, there you are, four months later, feet in position, hands gripped across your chest and scooched so far down you are in danger of falling off the exam table, trying to look nonchalant. So you lay there trying to appear interested, when all you’re really wondering is where do they keep the littlebutton they push to get the nurse into the room.

So you lay back and think about your sins (sorry, I was raised Catholic) and stare at the ceiling, trying not to bear down too hard when the spatula thing goes in. It’s not warm by the way. Regardless of what they tell you, that thing is never, ever, evereverever warm. So there you are, feet in the air, butt scooched, staring at the ceiling, thanking God that this happens only once a year, and then you see it…. the poster on the ceiling.

Now seriously, who in heaven’s name had enough time on their hands to decide that a poster belonged on the ceiling over the exam table? And why, oh why, are they so dumb? I mean what’s with the flowers, and baby animals? I don’t know about you, but by the time I have spotted the poster, baby animals are not what comes to mind. Maybe a picture of the Chippendale dancers or something. I mean really…I’ll never see 40 again (ok, ok, 45, but who’s counting)…At least make it worth my while to look at the darn thing while I try not to clench down so hard the doctor can’t get the spatula thing back out.

And we all know what happens after the exam, right? No, you don’t get candy. You get another appointment! Wowee!! Another appointment. This one’s called a Mammogram!!

As I lay in bed last night trying to figure out why my chest was so sore, I remembered that I had joined 60 of my female neighbors in getting a mammogram earlier that day. I don’t know about your clinic, but the one I go to seem to have hired the perkiest people they could find to run their radiology department. What “perky” and “radiology” have in common, I have no idea, but for some reason, Northern Michigan has the happiest radiology techs in the U.S. It usually goes like this:

“Mary? Your turn…Yes it is. No, there’s no one else left…Get out from under the chair or I’ll tell your doctor…Yes I will…Ok, then I’ll tell your kids…Thank you”.

“My name is Janet and I’ll be your happy, happy, happy radiology tech today. You are my 47th patient today! How long have I worked here? Just today. Not to worry, we practiced on each other at school…Me? No, I don’t find it painful. What size do I wear? Why, AA, why?"

Did your OB/GYN ever tell you what happens when you turn 40? Mine either, so listen up. Everything drops. And I mean everything - your butt, your chin, your knees (yes they do!) and your chest. Remember when your breasts poked out and not down? Here’s the thing - when the majority of your body parts get down around your waist - you die. Get used to it. Until then you get mammograms.

Having a mammogram is sort of like giving birth. After it’s all over you wonder what all the fuss was about. Until then you’re lucky if your screaming doesn’t break any windows. I don’t know about your clinic, but at mine, once they get one of your body parts in the squeezer, you are trapped. They’re so fast you don’t see it coming. First the foot pedal brings the two parts together and you are sandwiched. This isn’t too bad, you think. Then she starts with the hand crank. And just when you are beginning to wonder what would happen if you faint from the pain the tech says something stupid like “Hold your breath!” Excuse me?? Hold my breath?? Who can breath?? Everything is in shock from my neck down…I couldn’t breath even if I wanted to.

I suppose, in all honesty, it only takes about 30 seconds and it’s over. Almost. They then do it all again, and this time they do it sideways! You think you’re ready for it this time. You clench your teeth, think of England, and close your eyes. Then she hits the hand crank again, trying to make your not-so-C-breast flat as a pancake. “Now hold your breath!” About this time, your vision is getting black around the edges and you are holding on for dear life, trying not to think of what would happen to your squished body parts if the rest of you drops to the floor.

Then the pressure is off, and you stand back, gasping and staring, sure that the tech has totally rearranged your anatomy forever. And then she reaches for the left one. We won’t go there.

But, hey, going to the clinic isn’t all bad. It’s the only place you can sit in a three arm-holed gown in a room full of women who are older and droopier than you, and think to yourself "I’m glad I’m not THAT Big!”

As always, love from Buckley,

Where the women are flat, the men have their legs crossed and the kids eat pizza whenever mom goes to the doctor.