Tag Archives: womens health

A Tale of Two Titties – Mine (A Hilarious Breast Cancer Awareness Month Tale and Reminder)

After a lump scare in my late-20′s, I learned that all lumps are not the C-word and it’s totally okay to get to 2nd base with yourself!

two tittiesLet me tell you a tale, a tale of two titties (oh, how that word makes me cringe, but it’s so much better for the pun)…

After finding a pea sized lump and getting a needle biopsy, I was told that like the several million other young women with fibrous breast tissue, I would be required to get a yearly mammogram and ultrasound.

I’d heard horrible tales of the mammogram and it’s crushing pain. I feared the impending torture and dreaded that, what little my child bearing and breastfeeding had left unscathed, would be permanently altered.

By the time my appointment had rolled around, the fear of having something less benign than a fibroid cyst had started to set in, as well.  If I can produce one kind of growth with no knowledge of it, why can’t I produce another kind?

While contemplating in the waiting room, I saw a woman, not a day under 100.  OK, if she can do this, so can I, I thought, resigned to get through this. Continue reading →

What’s a Little Peeing in Your Pants Between Friends?

What's a Little Peeing in Your Pants Between Friends?“Well, Jenny cough again but harder this time,” said Dr. Pollen from her cushy position directly underneath me and looking up into my nether regions.  How did the doctor get such a view, you ask? I was on a special type of birthing chair (one that was probably used in the 1600s as they inquired as to whether you were a witch). Not only was there barely any seat to hold me up, I was hoisted about 6ft in the air, so that the doctor’s assistants (or people with weird fetishes who pay to be called doctor’s assistants, as I like to call them) were looking my vajajay dead in the eye, ahem, the labia. The doctor then sat on her stool and literally rolled underneath me as if she was checking out my chassis. Which makes sense because she did mention the need for a tune up.

Why would one sit on such a chair without being dared or paid? Because apparently I have all kinds of prolapse (that’s stuff caving in and falling down, to you and me) and I’ve been totes ignoring my pelvic floor, which is weird because I’m pretty good about taking care of my floors … waxing the wood ones, cleaning the grout on the stone… Actually I do have a cleaning person, so it would’ve been weird to ask her to attend to my pelvic floor after say, vacuuming. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s let their pelvic floor slip through the cracks. Google says 40% of women are found to have stage II or greater prolapse upon pelvic exam. I read it on the internet people, so it must be true.

And yet, no one seems to discuss it. So, I am because A. “Vagina” is my favorite word to work into random conversation B. Doctors like to treat this issue with hysterectomies, which may not be necessary. C. If I pee on the floor while we’re having a conversation, you’ll already know why and we can just gloss over it and move on to the next topic. Continue reading →

Why is it so Hard to Cancel a Gym Membership

do we need the gym Why is it so hard to cancel a gym membership when it’s so easy not to use it?

In light of the recent findings that say women must workout 1 hour per day, I’ve decided to revamp my workout schedule.  First on the list… Leave the Athletic Club, which I have not used in a year…then use the money I’m saving to buy bigger clothes.

Continue reading →

My Cardiologist Has No Heart -Day 3

Day 3-  I feel as if I should be writing for a geriatric blog.  I’m like Seinfeld doing a gig at his parents clubhouse in Del Boca Vista , which is fitting since Mark affectionately calls me Jenny Youngman.  Seriously, take my husband… PLEASE.

It could go something like this:  “I mean hey, what’s with those stress tests anyway?  They want you to start out calm, but the first thing they do is scratch you with sand paper and stick stingy electrodes all over you.  What’s with that?  If they want you to start out calm, they should babysit your kids while you get in a shower.”

Jake was home from school, and I had to take him with me for the stress test.  They should just hook me up and let me try getting him dressed and having him eat breakfast on a time limit, that would be test enough.  I wouldn’t even need the treadmill.  We entered out of breath, and again I was the youngest by a mile.  The women who work in the office greeted me affectionately by name, like Norm walking into Cheers.

I was already winded from rushing to get us out the door, and Ryan to school, and through rush hour traffic, to be at a 9AM appointment.  I had barely enough time to stretch my eyelids, let alone my limbs.  The last thing I wanted to do was fail a walk on the treadmill.  I wanted to run circles around Morty, and Stanley, and Rita.  If I had to trip one of them, I would.

So, I found myself in the waiting room stretching.  In my own delusional competitive world. I had my leg straight in the air an inch from my ear.  I looked up out of my dazed state, to see the elderly couple sitting directly across from me.  I met the woman’s gaze.

“Are you getting a stress test?“ she asked sweetly.

“Yeah, and I didn’t have time to stretch.“  I explained, wishing I could catch the words before they hit her hearing aid.

“Oh, Larry‘s getting a stress test too,“  she said, turning to face her husband who was also stretching. He was stretching his socks to his knees, and his shorts to his man boobs.

I let go of my leg feeling ridiculous.  This might as well be a skit on SNL.  The only difference would be that I’d have prop legs that would reach way behind my ears.  Maybe I could twist them around each other and let them unravel with a helicopter effect.

“What time is yours?” she asked, knowing they’d been waiting a lot longer.

“Nine.“

“Oh?  Larry’s is at nine, too,  They must have two machines.“

“Yeah, well if we go head to head, Larry’s toast!“ I said cracking my knuckles.

“What?“

“I said, good luck.“

I remember my first day here.  I wanted to give my appointment to Every Tom, Dick and Larry in the waiting room, but now I’m a pro and I’m hoping to get the call.

Nurse:  “Jenny.”

“See you later, Suckas!”

Nurse:  “Um Jenny, your son can’t come back with you.”  The nurse warned, “Too much radiation in the room.”

The elderly lady, who clearly missed my trash talkin’ to Larry, graciously offered her sitting services.  Even though she probably wouldn’t get far with him, I still don’t leave Jake with strangers.  She could bribe him with stale sucking candies from the bottom of her purse and slowly amble out the door.  Than I would have to rely on one of the other waiting room occupants to throw out a cane to trip her and foil her evil plan.

To avoid such a kidnapping scenario, I brought him back to the nurse’s station.  There, a nurse, not used to seeing anyone under 70, reluctantly allowed my 7 year old and his DS in her seat.  The desks around him were stacked with files. Tons of them.  I put Jake’s water on a desk far away, and went in for the test.

Well, I passed, but I could barely stand by the end.  I held on to the bars heaving, and wondered why I hadn’t walked over some bodies on the way into that room.  The doctor came in to tell me that I seemed winded, but all was good, minus a couple skipped beats.  He informed me that I also passed the heart monitor and never even asked to see my elaborate log.

“But, I’m not sure if I read the echo yet,” he added.  “Wait here a minute, while I check it.”

During that minute someone came into the nurse’s station and knocked Jake’s water into about a thousand files and films.  The office went into complete mayhem.  The nurses rushed in to resuscitate the paperwork (If only they moved so fast on the patients).

“Whose water is this without a cap?” a bitchy nurse yelled.

“Mine, but I didn’t spill it,” I heard Jake sadly confess.

“Well, you have to have a CAP on YOUR WATER,“  she reprimanded, getting obvious joy from making him feel badly.

I turned to my nurse, “Is she serious?  He needs to cap his water?  When?  How regularly do you plan on seeing us?“

“Can he come in with you, NOW?“ the bitchy one asked my nurse.

I turned to Jake and said loudly, “Don’t worry, that mean woman clearly had a bad experience with a cap when she was a child.“  I took him into the checkout area and waited there.

Nurse:  “The Doctor would like to go over your echo.”
He met me in the nurses station and quickly explained that I probably have a congenital thing in my aortic valve.  He then drew me a picture, and told me to refrain from asking questions till he was done.

“No problem, I’ll ask if I’m dying after you finish your diagram.  Hey, don‘t forget to shade.”

He told me that it wasn’t a big deal, and may not be an issue for 20, 30, 40 years.  “20 years?  That only makes me 56,” I whined fearfully.

“So, 50 years then,” he said, like I had talked him into it.

“What then?“ I needed to know.

“Maybe a valve replacement, but we’re getting way ahead of ourselves.  Just don’t run a marathon or lift weights.“

“Um okay,“  I said, thinking, “this is a lot to lay on someone in the nook of the nurses station, where the nurses are still hissing and giving the cross sign.”

“Go home and look it up and then I’m sure you’ll have a bunch of questions for your next visit.”

Note to self, find new cardiologist, one with heart.

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A Trip To The Zoo, Day 2

This was the first round of tests, an echo cardiogram and a heart rate monitor to wear for 24 hrs.  I was supposed to have a stress test but, I had rolled my ankle the day before while tripping over my puppy and trying not to crash into Jake on our afternoon walk/sprint.  Being that I was too frail for the stress test I did the others and rescheduled for Thursday, at this point what’s one more visit?  I am already getting hellos from the staff.

As I left the office in my workout clothes with the wires and electrodes hanging from me, I was keenly aware of the stares.  I know they weren’t thinking this is some girl who runs marathons and needs to be monitored to remain in tip-top shape, no they were thinking, “Oh, so young, so sad.“  I really wanted to announce to the office that I was 97 when I walked in and that they took me back and ’Cocooned’ me.  “Seriously, ask the nurses to peel there faces off.”

Instead, I walked out with my little 24hr card, a log for episodes or stressors. Funnily enough, my father in law called the minute I walked in the door.  He wanted to know if I could pick up and store his bed in our garage storage because my husband told him, “no problem.”  This is the room which is now an office, which had so little space, we had to give away our own extra bed to fit in the desk.  Now, I am set up to be the unwavering, nay saying bad guy.  “Can you excuse me a second, I want to write something down.“

Father in law:  “What”

“I’m wearing this heart monitor and I’m wondering if this phone call is affecting it.“

This went on throughout the day as I kept a mini diary of my moment to moment stuff.

1PM:  Have a great idea for an article.

1:45PM:  First round of carpool, pick up 3 wound-up 1st graders and listen to them argue over which seat they get and who gets to play the Nintendo DS.

2:15PM:  Puppy drags me and Jake around neighborhood despite our best efforts to drag him.

2:45PM:  Second round of carpool to pick up Ryan.

3PM:  Have a playdate for both kids, but realize Jake has a fever, so I had to bring him home.

3:15PM:  Still listening to Jake crying and telling me I’m the…oh, what did he call me?  That’s right, “the worst Mommy ever.”

3:30PM:  Confess to being the ‘worst Mommy ever,’ just to make it stop.  Then I make a list of all the other mommies he could go live with.  This is followed by a quick “You’re not the worst mommy.  You’re the best mommy.”  To which I respond, “and don’t you forget it.”  How quickly the threat of giving him away works.

4PM:  Double shot of espresso.

4:20PM:  Poop.

5PM:  Clean puppy poop and pee out of my new carpet.

5:30PM:  Try to walk dog with Ryan on her bike, crying that her chin strap, which is barely touching her neck, is too tight.  Jake on his Ripstick, a mile ahead where I can’t see him, won’t answer my incessant screaming down the street.

6:15PM:  Ask kids 37 times what they want for dinner, while listing available menu items…  To no response.

6:30PM:  My children are melting down, hitting each other and then taking turns telling on each other in indescribably high pitched whines that are making my ears revolt and my puppy try to hang himself.

7PM:  Call them in to have the turkey and cheese sandwiches I have made for them only to hear,  “Turkey I didn’t ask for Turkey.”  “Yea, we don’t want turkey.  This turkey is yuck!”

7:10PM Mark walks in the door and goes to our room to change.

7:15PM Put out peanut butter and jelly for Jake and a grilled cheese cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.

7:30PM:  Put out just peanut butter for Jake and a waffle cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.  “Kitchen’s closed.”

7:31PM:  Check gage to see if I’m having a heart attack.

7:32PM:  Mark reenters and starts bugging me about calling Verizon and about insurance.

7:37PM:  Manage to escape conversation to give Ryan her bath and get Jake in the shower.

7:40-8:10PM:  Play naked Barbie’s with Ryan in the bath.  Ryan is all the pretty girls and I have the choice of being the boy, the homely faux Barbie with cut hair, or the queer fluorescent green sea horse.  Thanks Ryan.

8:11PM:  Beg pruney Ryan to get out of the bath and end up threatening to take a star from her star chart, which I actually only pretend to keep.

8:15PM:  Kids are in pj’s and have managed to sneak into my room for some late night cartoon network.

8:20-8:30PM:  The time it takes to bribe, threaten, yell, and beat them into submission.

8:31PM:  Family race into bedrooms.

8:32PM:  Ryan is crying, because someone did something she either did not like or does not allow, during the family race.

8:33PM:  Do-over of the family race, adhering to Ryan’s strict guidelines and allowing her to win.

8:34PM:  Mark walks back to our room thinking the night is done, and turns on sports.  If there is no new sports he actually rewatches some game on ESPN classic that he already knows the outcome of.  WTF?

8:35PM:  Ryan begs me to read 3 stories which I shrewdly negotiate down to 2.  Once I’m halfway into 1, Jake slinks in trying to be unnoticed and slyly gets in bed with us.

8:40PM:  I finish the first story and then tell Jake to read the next one as I slink, trying to be unnoticed, out to the laundry room.  I like this trick, it gets him to read and gives me a one book reprieve.

8:50PM:  I tell Jake he must go and he then begs me to come into his room after I leave Ryan’s.  Why not?  I require no personal time.  Nope all need it an hour to plug myself in to a wall socket and I’m recharged for the morning.

9PM:  I now find myself singing 2 songs of Ryan’s choosing, doing a tickle monster, and two kiss attacks.  What can I say, she’s really cute and she does a great quivering lip.

9:10PM:  Bring Ryan a milk in a sippy cup, as requested.

9:11PM:  Give her one more big kiss, as requested.

9:12PM:  Take the toys that are scaring her out of her room.

9:13PM:  Fix her pillow.

9:14PM:  Threaten to take more imaginary stars away.

9:20PM:  Inform Ryan that this is “the absolute last time I am coming in.”  That’s right, even if you give me the eyes and the lip, I know how to put my foot down!

9:25PM:  Go into to see Jake who is passed out.

9:30PM:  Allow puppy to drag me around the block, despite my best efforts to drag him.  Watch him relentlessly bark at a black trash bag that someone has left in the swail.  I then threaten to take away stars from his imaginary star chart.

9:45PM:  Run in to tell Mark, we should have sex just to fuck with the Doctor, but he is fast asleep.  Yea well, I’ll be fast asleep soon.  Right after I do the dishes and straighten up, and check on my kids, and wash-up, and brush my teeth, and floss, and take my vitamins, and play some kind of word game on FB with people I haven’t spoken to  in 18years to remind me I have a brain.

Day 2 in the bag, stay tuned… day 3’s a doozie.

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A Trip To The Zoo, I Mean The Cardiologist

In the ongoing saga of low blood pressure I found myself at the cardiologist 4 times last week.

Day One:  Upon arriving it does not take a carni age guesser to know that I am at least a hundred years younger than the rest of the crowd.  I am also in the minority that is not connected to an iv or oxygen tank.

The truth is, I happen to be in a rush and would selfishly love to be the first in.  Selflessly, I don’t want to go in before any one of these people who could clearly use a once over and someone to check for a pulse.  As I am unsettled by this thought, a woman drags herself in the door and up to the window, “I am having chest pains unlike anything I  have ever felt.  I don’t have an appointment, but can I see my Doctor?”  As it turns out she takes my appointment and thankfully so, as poor Estelle is sitting across from me clutching her heart and breathing erratically.   I proactively position myself directly parallel so that I can catch her if necessary.

Nurse:  “Morty”

As they come out calling for other people, I’m thinking please call in Estelle before she codes.

Nurse 2:  “Phil”

Nurse 1:  “Estelle”

Nurse 2:  “Bea”

Nurse 1:  “Saul”

The receptionist who is joking with all the patients as if it might be there last day, pokes her head out, “Mr. Dale are you gonna give me any more trouble today young man?  Oh, and Mrs. Isenman, he’s getting to you.“

“I’ve been here over an hour is that normal?“

“Nope, he’s usually right on time, but there was a problem with the patient before you and we’ve already had an ambulance here once this morning and it‘s only 10 0‘clock“

Nurse 3:  “Joan”

Mark calls to see how the appointment went.
“I’m still waiting.“

“Oh, you are?  Are you filling out all the medical forms or are you just waiting to be called?“

“No Mark, they’re ready for me, I’m just so thrown by these forms.  So many tough questions, like my name and my age.  Then there are some real zingers like my SSN.  It’s like taking the SAT’s all over again.  They’re begging me to finish up and I’m trying to convince them that I’m eligible for the untimed version.

Nurse 2:  “Sandy”

Look I know he’s trying.  I know he was hoping I would be out so he could check it off his ‘things to remember list,’ and I know he asked that ridiculous question because he wants to seem caring, but I can’t help myself sometimes.

Nurse 1:  “Jenny”

By now the hypoglycemia that they found last week during my 5 hr. glucose test is acting up and the nurse goes to get me an apple juice, that they have for “such occasions.”  “Thanks, but really there’s no need to make such a fuss.”  Did I really say fuss?  See what an hour and a half out there did to me?  “By the way how is Estelle?”

Nurse:  “Who?”

The cardiologist Dr. Seth was, thank goodness, is not what I was expecting.  He was a referral from my, ‘roll your own’ Jamaican Doctor and I was thinking Seth might just be his first name, and that he may or may not have a surf board and that he may or may not have a medical license.  Luckily, he is Arcaad Seth, an Indian gentleman.  Look, I saw “Slumdog,” so I have a birds eye view into his upbringing.  As it turns out my sympathy for his being  part of a panhandling ring of blind singers does little for our deeper connection.  He roboticly set me up for a series of tests to “rule out the possibilities” and sternly warns me not to drive much saying, “You could hit a school bus filled with children.“

“Thank you for that.  Just telling me would not have been enough.  Did the past 30 minutes with me not give you any indication that I have some excessive worrying issues?  Maybe when I was telling you that when I yawn sometimes it feels like the blood gets stuck in my neck, and you snickered under your breath, like I was insane?

Wow, and that was just day one.  Stay Tuned.

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Want Pancakes? Have A Mammogram.

I had a mammogram this week.  I have to get one every year; though tatas are small, there is miraculously  room for fibroid cysts.  My tech went so far as to comment on my boobies, saying they’re “perfectly perky.”  Well, she said that after laughing aloud at the thought of getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine.    My tech was crass to say the least, but her outrageous inability to filter actually shifted my focus and put me at ease.

After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.

“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.

“Don’t worry, I have some at home,” I responded, doing the same.

As it turned out, she was right to laugh. The first time on the shelf, they slipped right out. The intense squeezing actually slung-shot them back towards my body.

“What?  Did you butter those puppies?“  She asked, with a snort.

I ignored her, and rubbed my chest to stop the vibration that the ricochet had caused.

The second time she was more thorough and managed to get a couple ribs onboard, as anchors, I assume.

“Um, excuse me, is it okay that you have bones in there too?”

“Don’t worry.  They won’t break.”

Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing harder. Shelf lifting.  I raised myself onto my tippy-toes to avoid my bosoms being ripped clean off. More squeezing. CRUNCH.

“What was that, bone?”

“Alright, just one more squeeze.”

“Fine, but I think milk might come out.”

“Oh, are you breast feeding?”

“No.”

After flattening my boobs into pancakes, I felt like a cartoon victim of a falling anvil. I patiently waited for them to snap back, or for an animated squirrel to come along, stick in a tube and pump them up.There was no one.  No squirrels, or skunks, or any other well-meaning rodents came to my rescue, so I shoved them back into my sports bra.  This is what all the hype was about, what my friends are dreading? The relief of finishing the test was quickly cancelled out by the anxiety of knowing I had to wait for my results.

As I passed the waiting room, I noticed the same elderly woman shakily stick her nipple markers in a plastic baggy and into her purse, where they most likely sunk into an abyss of sucking candies, saltines, and sweet N’ low packets.

I imagined one kinky grandpa with a bottle of Viagra eagerly awaiting her return, and got a chuckle of my own.  If your boobs hang down to your knees and grandpa‘s sight isn‘t what it used to be, you might need some assistance finding your nipples.  That’s one us flat chested folk don’t have to worry about -gravity.

In the end, the findings revealed another benign cyst.  I told my body it is not allowed to create so much as a zit without my permission.  I will, however, still be at next year’s appointment in case my body disobeys my explicit instructions. I want the option of stealing nipple markers in about 70 years.

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