The Boobs Have It

Display in museum in New York City
Do you know how many breasts I have touched? 

Thousands of them.

It is staggering when I reflect upon it. 

So many breasts. So very many. All shapes and colors and sizes. Hairy. Not hairy. Moles and rashes and skin tags galore. Droopy. Perky. Somewhere in between.

During breast exams I have for years and years referred to the exam as the “boob check.” Whenever I made reference to my breasts of anyone else’s I nearly always called them boobs or boobies. 

To be honest, I thought it was cute.

Touching another woman’s breasts makes me uncomfortable, maybe even a bit embarrassed. I feel the same when someone else is looking at or touching mine in a nonsexual, clinical sort of way. So I made fun of breasts and joked about the situation. It took some of the sting out of the situation to act goofy.

One of the many beautiful things about blogging  is that from time to time someone says something that makes me reexamine a part of my life and causes me to make some changes. 

Mark at Exile on Pain Street made a comment on one of my blog posts a while back (ok, maybe it was WAY back in July of 2015) that has stuck with me:

“I hate that word. Boobs…. Boobs sounds comical and crude. It lacks decorum. Theyโ€™re beautiful! Not something to make fun of.”

This. From a MAN. 

At first, I blew it off. What does he know about women’s bodies anyway? What gives him the right to tell me what is disrespectful about the term boobs. I can can dang well call them anything I want, can’t I? I own a pair after all.

But it ate at me. 

And I felt kind of guilty.

I would take that comment out from time to time and chew on it. The word boob is, after all, another way to refer to someone who is a fool. An idiot. My breasts are way better than that, aren’t they? So are every other woman’s breasts for that matter. They give pleasure. They give life. Right or wrong, so much of who we are as women is wrapped up in these exocrine glands. I would never tell a man to show me his “twig and berries” if I were doing a genital exam. Why do I persist in denigrating the female anatomy during office visits? 

Excellent question.

Yesterday I was telling a woman to change into my lovely blue paper gown so we could do a breast exam when it struck me…

When was the last time I called them boobs?

It had been a long, long time, I realized.

And that made me smile…

Reflective

Central Park duck pond

“He had an awful lot to say about you.” 

I steeled myself for what was to come. I had no idea how physicians in the group I left perceived me now, almost eight years later.

Eight years? Had it really been that long?

She laughed heartily.

I relaxed.

Her dentist, apparently good friends with the other provider, referred her there for a work up for bone loss he had picked up on dental X-rays. I stumbled upon the visit in her medical record in the EHR when she requested a refill on one of her medications. Aside from the fact that it was a work up I could have easily done and referring her to another primary care provider when she had one already was itself a bit unprofessional, I did not know if she would make her way back to me or stick with him. Patients always loved him. 

So I waited.

“I told him you were my favorite doctor ever. He said you had to be right about everything but he missed working with you.”

Right about everything? Really?

Admittedly there are certain things I do not compromise on. You routinely lose my patient’s vaginal specimens and I will insist that you come and spread your legs for a speculum exam as punishment. Ok, not really that drastic but I take that sort of thing very seriously. Pelvic exams are not just physically uncomfortable, they are emotionally uncomfortable for patients and saying, “just have them come back for a repeat” is not an adequate response when I am dealing with a lost specimen for the fifth time in as many months. I will raise holy hell if I have to. But I am rambling….

It is interesting sometimes to see what people remember or think about me. Sometimes it hurts, though, and most of the time I would just rather not know. Is needing to being right about everything what I wanted to leave him with? 

No. 

Not really.

But it could have been worse. At the end of my tenure at that office there was all sorts of drama, he had been involved in some of that, and I was glad to leave it all behind when I left.

A few weeks later I ran into that same former partner at a restaurant. I was there with my kids to get something to eat after a long, tough Friday. They were beat. So was I. 

He saw me and walked over say to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes about how his kids were all grown up now.

“I used to work with your mom,” he said to my son and daughter. “Do you know what she did?” 

My kids swung their tired eyes over to him and focused on his face, warily. He was a stranger. They were used to strangers addressing their mom in public but were not used to being addressed directly themselves. I again braced myself, not knowing what he would say. 

“She told a bunch of kids at an office picnic that she would pay them $5 if any of them hit me with a raw egg. All of a sudden this whole herd of kids was running at me with eggs in their hands.” My son snickered. “So do you know what I did?” They shook their heads, leaning in close to get the scoop. “I told them I would pay $10 if any of them got her with an egg. They chased her all over that park.”

“Did they get her?” My son asked eagerly.

“Sure did.”

I interjected here. “With ONE egg, alright? Just one.” I held one single finger up for emphasis.

Now? I am a legend as far as my kids are concerned. My son in particular loves pranks. He loves knowing mom does, too. I am grateful to my former partner for giving us that.

Time passes, doesn’t it?

Time heals wounds by bending memories. It tempers recollections and feelings until sometimes bygones truly can be bygones. 

I haven’t played a good prank in years, though. That is drawback to the passage of time. I am getting so awfully dang old!

Motherhood Sucks

Looking out of a window in Venice, Italy
I have taken care of all manner of sick people and their unpleasant smells and secretions: purulent drainage, vaginal discharges galore, fecal impactions, decayed appendages, amniotic fluid from strangers, sputum in every color of the rainbow…

But none of that prepared me for the disgusting onslaught that is motherhood. 

Poorly wiped kiddo bums. You know… when they are learning to do it themselves but are not willing to admit they need help. There is nothing like the smell of stale sweaty bum crack poo that has been fermenting all day long on the school playground. I will never understand why my kids had to pop their bums into my face when the odor was the most offensive. Then there is the poop and pee smeared all over the bathroom. MY bathroom. WTF? I have lost track of the number of times I have ended up with their vomit in my mouth!!! Snot. Never ending snot. The forgotten frogs that die in their containers and are found weeks later in a semi-liquified state. That is a sight that cannot be unseen, a smell that cannot be unsmelled.

So help me, no one said, “Brace yourself…” I would have appreciated some sort of warning. Instead people said, “Savor this time, it is over all too quickly!” 

Not quickly enough, I’ll tell you.

So let this serve as a warning to all of you who are contemplating the beauty of motherhood, thinking of reproducing. Turn back NOW before it is too late. Seriously. 

Fortunately, now that the Ebola threat has passed (for now) I have hazmat stuff from the office that begs to be used. So at least there’s that. 

Good thing they’re still cute.

The Scales

Communicating effectively with others is the key to success. I want my son to get comfortable speaking in front of others so this year I encouraged him to enter a speech competition through his school. 

He worked hard on it.

As parents we all suffer from delusions of grandeur regarding our clearly exceptional progeny but between the two of us, I had no expectations that he was going to win. I just wanted him to participate. I was fully prepared to just celebrate the achievement of his participation.

But then? He was given a red ribbon with “Excellent” emblazoned across it in gold letters. 

At first I was overjoyed. In my day, a red ribbon meant that you placed second. Excellent meant that you did pretty damn good.

Did he really do so well? 

During our practice he struggled with speaking too fast and was not making good eye contact. Was it possible that he listened to me? That he took my advice to heart? To be honest, that would have meant more to me than the ribbon itself.

Eventually I was given his judging forms. There were three judges. Apparently in this private school league they only score as Good, Excellent, or Superior and the kids are not ranked into places at all. Color of the ribbon? Yeah. Meaningless.

WTF?

Two out of the three judges gave my son a Good. Only one gave him an Excellent. From the judges’ notes, he fidgeted, stumbled, had to be prompted, and did not make eye contact. They gave him an Excellent ribbon for that. We worked on all of those things but it was his first competition and he is a first grader so I am not surprised or embarrassed or upset with his performance. I am so very proud that he was brave enough to get up there in front of strangers.

But how can I reinforce to my son that hard work pays off when mediocrity gets him an Excellent rating and a red ribbon? How can I make the point that he should listen to his mama’s advice about eye contact? How can I help him work through rejection and loosing and the unfairness of life while in the safety of childhood before he becomes a fragile adult who is devastated by the realization that the world does not in fact hand out participation trophies? And what about how this demoralizes and minimizes the kids who really did perform exceptionally well? They deserve to feel the full glory of their achievements, don’t they?

I just don’t understand. 

Doctor’s Day

Cute butterfly on a blossom

Doctor’s Day was yesterday. Did you know that?

Caught me completely by surprise.

It used to be a big thing ten years ago. The hospital hung banners up and handed out logo emblazoned umbrellas, bags, pens, and whatnot. My staff signed a big card the office manager picked up and a new potted plant would now sit on my desk. Drug reps dropped off cards and swag. There would be emails celebrating doctors sent from the suits. Well not really from the suits. From their secretaries. The point was, though, you just could not escape what day it was. 

To be honest, all of the hoopla back then made me feel very uncomfortable. 

This is not why I am doing this. I am not here for the accolades or the potted plants and I resent the insinuation that these things matter to me. Please leave me alone.

Each year it is less and less of a big deal. This year? Silence. Not a single frickin word from anyone. In fact, my only clue was a post from someone else on WordPress. 

Yesterday I told a woman she has metastatic ovarian cancer. I told a man that he now has diabetes and we developed a treatment plan together. I did a newborn visit on a precious two week old baby. I cried with a woman over her divorce and saw a man whose mother just died from the same disease he now has. Then I watched the last few minutes of my son’s karate class and picked up cupcakes for my daughter’s class party. 

This is life. My life. Every day. 

And you know what? Despite any bitching and complaining that I do here, I really, really love my job. It is such an honor and a privilege to care for people, to be there when they need help. THAT is what keeps us going… keeps me going.

In truth, I’d do this job for free. Just don’t tell the suits that I said that. ๐Ÿ˜‰

The Longest Ride

Columns on Alamo facade in San Antonio
“MOMMY! He hit me!!!” she wailed.

“No I didn’t!” he hissed back.

They both start hitting each other.

The elevator is full of men and women dressed in suits for some conference or another. Some turn and stare. Some laugh. Some pointedly avoid making eye contact. 

23 floors.

Just when you think they are old enough to get along in public, they prove you wrong. 

Siblings.

Because no one knows how to get under your skin quite like a brother or sister.

Chimera

Small white flower bloom

I read the chromosomal analysis.

Partial trisomy of sex chromosome… mosaicism…

Well. What was that going to mean? I needed an answer before I called this baby’s mom. She had been waiting anxiously throughout her pregnancy after the initial testing had showed a probable genetic anomaly. Mosaics are tricky. Some cells are normal. Some are not. The end result can vary. I searched everywhere at my disposal professionally. 

Nothing. 

So then I turned to Google. 

“Likely no developmental delays. No fertility issues. Phenotypically normal appearance.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I was still sending them to genetics but I wanted to be able to reassure the family if I could. It had been a very emotional pregnancy.

And since then I have been thinking about this more and more.

Now that OB/Gyns are offering, and sometimes pushing, these more advanced genetic tests during pregnancy I wonder what it is going to mean for the babies as they grow up. We would have never known there was an issue genetically for this child 10 years ago. We just would not care. They would have grown up as a “normal” child. Now this kiddo will have “sex chromosome anomaly” hanging around their neck for the rest of their life. 

Is more information really better? Just because we can do something… should we?

Maybe not.

Checking Out

Thorns of a Mesquite tree

“How is your day?” the cashier asked as he scanned the items one by one in slow motion. He looked to be in his late 20’s. The middle aged woman ahead of me wore a dark pants suit and looked to be in a hurry. It appeared there would be pasta for dinner in her house tonight.

My kids would love spaghetti and meatballs…

“Just fine. You?” She murmured politely as she pulled out her wallet.

“Terrible! It has been a terrible day. I woke up this morning to a text from my parents saying they are raising my rent. How can they do that? Raising the rent?!?!!!?! I live in their house! How DARE they?”

He went on to rant for several minutes about how he was just going to have to find somewhere else else to live and it was not fair. What, were they trying to get him to leave?

The woman stood awkwardly waiting on the receipt. He waved it around for emphasis as he told his story, effectively holding her hostage. Eventually she cleared her throat and held out her hand, offering no sympathy. Finally he handed the paper over. She grabbed the plastic sack and practically ran out of the store.

“How’s your day going?” he asked me as the scanner bleeped my few items.

“Just fine,” I said, stopping there.

Shaving cream.

Toothpaste.

Socks.

Awkward silence.

“I guess they do want me to move out, huh?” He looked crestfallen.

“Yeah. Probably.”

Show Off

My son finished his piano solo at the Christmas program. Oh Little Town of Bethleham. He played every note perfectly. I was so dang proud of him! I stopped the video I was taking with my smartphone so I could clap like a crazy woman. I *might* have even shouted, “You are so frickin’ awesome!” 

All of the other kids took a bow or curtsied while the audience clapped politely. My son? He paused right there at center stage, a slow grin spreading across his face. And then? 

He dabbed. 

Yes, the boy dabbed. In the middle of the church auditorium in front of hundreds of people, he dabbed. Dabbing, the weird dance move that appears as if you are sneezing at the same time as you are trying to fly off like a super hero.

People laughed. They screamed. They cried. Some whistled. One woman fainted. Strangers were giving him high fives and knuckles as he sauntered back to his seat. Every single boy that followed after him on stage also dabbed at the end of their performance.

And so I was left wondering how on earth did I end up with a cool kid? I was never that cool. I was so square I couldn’t even dream of being that cool. I am still terribly uncool, even in adulthood. Especially in adulthood….

Salvation is Near!

There is nothing like prying your kids off of each other for the fifteenth time before 10AM to make you question your parenting skills. 

And your sanity.

We are on day five of me at home with my kids. I don’t have anyone reliable to watch them when they are out of school for the holidays (there is entirely too much time off of school nowadays if you ask me ๐Ÿ˜‰) so their father and I split the time. Currently, it is my turn. Tomorrow I get to go back to work for a few days.

Yippie! (You didn’t hear me say that…)

Stay at home moms, I don’t know how you do it day after day, week after week, month after month. Honestly, I am not as strong as you are. I am beginning to think I look pretty sexy in sweats. That’s right. Not to mention the fact that all of the cookies I have baked have snuck off to hide somewhere… I couldn’t possibly have eaten all of them. AND I am talking to rising bread dough as an equal. 

All of this has convinced me that I am a much better parent in smaller doses. I had suspected this, but in the past my kids still napped. 

Now they don’t. 

So. 

I say all of this to say that if you hang with your kids all day every day and still like them and yourself, you have my respect. I send you a virtual fist bump of solidarity. 

Meanwhile, I am going to quietly sneak off to pack my work bag for tomorrow morning so as not to draw the attention of the angry hoards demanding that I fold yet another origami frog.

Woohoo! (You didn’t hear me say that…)