Boobs!!

As a woman of a certain age, I like to think that I’m vaguely aware of the various health-related issues which occasionally need addressing, and I also like to think that I’m generally on top of such matters. However, during a particularly luxuriously indulgent bubble bath one evening, it suddenly came to my attention that all was not entirely as it should be in the boob department. My relaxing bathing ritual instantly turned into a soapy worry-fest as I discovered a new, and very much unwanted, lump.

As my discovery was made fairly late in the evening, way past my local GP surgery opening hours, I spent an anxious night obsessing over all manner of things until 9am the next day, when I could finally ring up and book a doctor’s appointment. As soon as the words “breast lump” escaped my mouth, the receptionist turned into Mrs super-serious. “Dr Malone can see you at 10am!” she announced almost instantly. Stunned by the immediacy of the appointment I automatically agreed, bolted down some corn flakes then fetched my coat. It was then when it dawned on me that I hadn’t actually heard of this particular GP and began to fret that I’d be intimately examined by a man. I know it SHOULDN’T make any difference whatsoever, and now was definitely not the time to turn all bashful. I needed to be checked out as soon as possible and all GPs have done this type of thing hundreds of times before, but I managed to work myself into a right panic all the same.

On arrival at the surgery I was informed that Dr Malone is a female, and the look of relief on my face must’ve said it all. The two minutes I sat in the waiting room seemed an eternity, but in all honesty it was the briefest spell I’ve ever spent in there. I was called to an examination room and, after explaining my bath time findings to the nice lady doctor, she made small-talk with me while groping my upper body, all legal and above board. She agreed that there was, indeed, a lump and she duly filled out a note for me to take to reception, where they would book a hospital referral for me. I was a tad alarmed to see the words “rapid response” written down and immediately went into panic-mode once again.

Within minutes the super-efficient receptionist had accessed my NHS ‘healthspace’ on her computer and I’d been booked to see a specialist at the local hospital two days later. The lightening speed of the process literally stunned me. No matter what we all say about the National Health Service, and I’ve had more than my fair share of reasons for vocalising my extremely negative opinions regarding NHS treatment in the past, they DO seem to take things of this nature very seriously indeed. Astonishing efficiency between the NHS and the post office meant that my hospital paperwork arrived the following morning. I was to wear a t-shirt for ease of removal rather than a shirt with complicated buttons and I was to avoid antiperspirant.

By the time my appointment had arrived I was sweating like a proverbial pig, no small thanks to the instruction regarding the non-usage of underarm sprays, and I’d convinced myself that the news would not be good. My other half was gravely concerned that his ‘fun bags’ had become poorly and was uncharacteristically quiet as we sat waiting to be called up. Eventually, I was requested to step into a tiny side room by a rotund and overly-chirpy breast care nurse who quipped “Just take your top off – don’t be shy!” Now, 20 years ago, with about a gallon of Bacardi inside me, wild horses wouldn’t have been able to keep my top ON. As I sat there feeling rather exposed, I spotted the inter-connecting door. So, there I sat, topless and vulnerable, unaware as to exactly who was going to come in, and through which door. Make mine a double!!

A minute or two later a female doctor entered the room and I faced an encore of the whole legal groping episode. The diagnosis was “probably fatty tissue” however; a mammogram was now required by way of a second opinion.

My visibly-concerned other half, who’d been patiently waiting in the corridor while I endured the preliminaries, escorted me to the x-ray department, which wasn’t entirely as straightforward as you might think in a re-vamped but distinctly Victorian building. At one point I felt rather like a contestant on The Crystal Maze, only without the shell-suit or the eccentric bald man. On arrival at yet another reception desk, the paperwork was swiftly dealt with and we sat down in yet another waiting area, which was actually a small stretch of corridor with half a dozen plastic seats along the wall, and a slightly wobbly table displaying a couple of well-thumbed copies of Women’s Own and a Practical Caravanning Magazine. As a 100 percent heterosexual female I found it deeply disturbing that I seem to have become obsessed with looking at other ladies chests! How can something so normal-looking be so potentially deadly? Unwelcome thoughts began to enter my mind as I stared at my feet trying to avoid any socially inappropriate behaviour. I was relieved to be rescued from myself as I was eventually called in for my mammogram.

The petite young radiologist assured me that even the most flat-chested ladies manage to fit into the monstrous contraption which stood before me. I wasn’t entirely convinced; however, she quickly loaded what looked like a videotape, but was some sort of x-ray cartridge, into her computer and began to position me. “Put your right hand on your head, lean into the machine, grab the handle with your left hand…….try not to crack your head on the apparatus….” It had to be the most unnatural pose ever! Within seconds a vice had grabbed my right boob and turned it into what looked like road-kill. Flat as a pancake it was. There were four x-rays to be taken in all, two with the left and two with the right, all requiring the kind of balancing act that would not seem out of place in a circus. I wouldn’t say it was painful, but it was definitely uncomfortable, both physically and mentally.

While I struggled to regain a shred of dignity, wishing that my skimpy t-shirt was actually a huge woolly jumper, with a polo neck which I could yank right up over my crimson face, my photographer explained that a consultant would now assess my x-rays and he’d decide on what the next step would be, and so back to the plastic chairs I went. About five excruciatingly long minutes later a nurse arrived and unexpectedly announced that I was to be taken away for an ultrasound scan. As someone who has faced the joys of pregnancy in the past I’m fully aware of what ultrasound is, but I wasn’t expecting to have it done to my top half. Paranoia set in once again.

As I lay down half naked in yet another small room, the humourless, elderly, male consultant asked if I’d ever had this done before. Not wishing to elaborate on whatever alcohol-fuelled party games I may, or may not have, indulged in during my hedonistic youth I simply muttered something along the lines that I’d had children and was therefore familiar with the process. The obligatory cold gel was unceremoniously squirted onto me, making me flinch, and I was poked and prodded some more before finally hearing the words I’d been longing to hear for the past few hellish days; “There’s nothing to worry about”. Phew! If the consultant had been slightly more user-friendly I’d have hugged him, and I admit to being more than a little tearful at my healthy verdict. My previously gloomy other half suddenly looked as if all of his Christmases had come at once on receiving the good news, and at last, it was back to the tiny side-room with two doors for the final word from the breast care nurse that my lump, or, as the ultrasound showed, lumps in the plural, were nothing sinister.

I can’t begin to explain what a heavy weight this had been on my shoulders over the comparatively brief period of time between that less-than-relaxing evening bath and getting the all-clear, and how lucky I feel that I can go off and enjoy my life, unlike so many unfortunate women, and a tiny but equally important proportion of men, who aren’t as privileged as me. So, until I get the age-related call-up for my routine mammogram once I hit my half-century, I shall endeavour to enjoy my baths and be utterly grateful that while I can’t exactly give Jordan a run for her money, and my boobs may indeed follow the adage that ‘more than a handful’s a waste’, they’re perfectly fit and healthy, which is plenty good enough for me. 

G.P. Appointment...

Sods law dictates that whenever you are en route to a doctor’s appointment, your ailment seems to completely vanish. So much so, that the act of making an appointment to see your GP should be published in The Lancet as a drug-free cure for all disorders. In my case, it was not so much disappear completely, but it was a far cry from the hideous pain I had been suffering with my bad neck over the past week and a half.

My local doctor’s surgery has recently become all new-fangled. When I rang up to book an appointment I was treated to a brand new automated selection; press 1 for a medical emergency (although, in my opinion, 999 is a far easier number to remember than my 6 digit surgery number when faced with a dire medical situation), press 2 for appointments, which is what I should’ve done, had curiosity not got the better of me, wondering how many options they were going to give me before they ran out, press 3 to speak to a nurse, press 4 if you are in need of a repeat prescription, press 5…..oh well, I’d had enough of that now and pressed 2 (assuming that there was an almost infinite amount of options, the final one being press 999 if you have now lost the will to live).

Not only had I been automated with regards to the landline, my local surgery now sends appointment reminders by text exactly 24 hours before your allotted time, which is hard luck for those who have yet to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21^st century and do not possess a smart new Nokia. Luddites will simply have to rely on the old fashioned methods of using a diary.

I arrived at the surgery five minutes early, to avoid an encore of a previous encounter with a receptionist, who scolded be for turning up a whole two minutes late and therefore putting their entire system out of kilter. I was met my a lady wearing a rather smart navy blue cardigan, who was leaning over the reception desk, frantically pointing at a big white screen on the wall in front of me. This peculiar mime act was my introduction to the new computerised, touch screen, booking in system, a.k.a. the DIY receptionist.

There was an exciting selection of languages to choose from, and, despite the temptation to test them all, I opted to select English. I was rewarded with “Welcome” displayed on the screen, swiftly followed by the choice of male or female. Well, the last time I checked I was a lady, so female it is. Next I had to use a number pad to tap out my year of birth, then I had to select my month of birth, and, you guessed it, I was then asked for my day of birth! Hoorah, it finally recognised who I am and I was instructed to take a seat alongside all the other automated patients in the waiting room. Good job I had arrived early as I was now only moments away from being late. Isn’t technology a wonderful thing?

As I plonked my backside on the only available chair, stuck right next to the giant triffid in the corner, I couldn’t fail to notice the massive tv screen located at the far end of the room. Rather hoping for something cheery to watch while I waited, I was highly disappointed to discover that for my viewing pleasure was an endless stream of medical-related adverts. Have I thought about my holiday jabs? Am I depressed? Have I got diabetes? Do I need help to quit smoking? Am I pregnant? Did I book my flu jab? The list seemed endless.

Suddenly, the entire screen turned canary yellow, accompanied by a very loud doorbell sound, and someone’s name flashed up in huge black letters! It appears that you are no longer called to your appointment by a kindly nurse or by a red light and buzzer combination. Your full name, along with the name of your GP and your allocated room number are displayed for all to see, thus ending any quaint notions of anonymity. Thank goodness you are spared the excruciating humiliation of seeing your medical woe announced to all and sundry.  I must admit to being a tad shocked at such a blatant lack of privacy, and now sat in dread of the moment that my own name would be emblazoned on a big yellow screen for one and all to see. Although I am not a fugitive from the law, and have nothing to fear from others being aware of my presence, I do not seek fame and fortune and therefore do not require my name to appear on a huge public television screen.

While I pondered upon this annoyance, wondering if this would put me at risk of credit card cloning or spam emails, and whatever happened to patient confidentiality, my attention became focussed on the fact that I was the only person in the room not hacking up a lung. On every available seat was all manner of individuals, apparently stricken with the recently reported flu epidemic. Despite warnings on tv and radio along with notices in the local and national press to remain quarantined at home, unless it became a medical emergency, the world and its wife had turned up to my local surgery this morning, and were now filling the room in which I sat with highly contagious germs. The flu virus had obviously rendered them illiterate, as the walls of the waiting room were practically smothered in huge posters telling people to stay away if they had caught this particular annual affliction.

The thought then crossed my mind that each and every one of these sickly individuals had touched that big white screen before I arrived, and now the forefinger on my right hand was undoubtedly contaminated with millions of little bugs, just waiting for me to succumb to their evil. I frantically rummaged about in my handbag and, as luck would have it, I discovered a travel pack of wet wipes that had been sitting in there since a summer holiday in Cyprus 6 months earlier. See, women should never clear out their handbags as you never know when you might need something that’s stashed in there. My germ phobia, induced by crowds of ill people in the vicinity, usually forbids me to thumb through previously owned, and sneezed on, copies of Women’s Own or Angling News, and the last thing I need is a new bacterial woe to concern myself with.

As I anxiously continued to disinfect my spotlessly clean finger another thought crossed my mind. What about all the airborne germs? I had no choice, I just had to zip up my fleece as far as it would go and yank it up over my face. I must’ve looked a real sight for sore eyes, a mad woman buried up to her eyelashes in a thick jumper, frantically rubbing her finger with a baby wipe. No wonder the small child, who until now had simply been a minor, snotty-nosed irritation, as it read out loud to its flu-ridden mother “A is for apple, B is for box…C is presumably for cough” was now grabbing onto her ailing parent’s leggings screaming like a demon. I must’ve been a terrifying sight, however, I wasn’t going to allow the guilt of traumatising a pre-schooler to come between me and my germ blockade, so I simply ignored her wails and stared intently at the adverts for factor 50 sun lotion, which were now appearing on the huge screen in front of me.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see a tiny little old lady, who was barely able to push her zimmer frame through the heavy double doors, struggling with understanding the concept of futuristic touch-screen technology. Clearly confused, and in obvious need of assistance, the becardiganed woman finally abandoned her Marcelle Marceau impression, and reluctantly wandered over to help the poor dear out.

After what seemed an eternity, and just before I was about to pass out from heatstroke wrapped in my fleecey cocoon, the ridiculously loud doorbell sound, which accompanied the vast yellow on-screen written announcement, alerted everyone within a mile that my GP was finally requesting my presence in room 3. Now, I wonder what it was I came here for?

The MRI Scan...

Modern technology is a truly wonderful thing, especially any medical gadgetry which can assist in receiving a swift diagnosis and subsequently rapid treatment of a painful medical condition. Which is why I was ever-so slightly excited at the prospect of going for an MRI scan at my local hospital, in the hope that it would somehow fast-track me towards the effective pain relief I’d been seeking for the ever-worsening neck pain which had afflicted me for the past 9 months.

On arrival, a cheery receptionist was more than happy to take my paperwork and immediately asked me to take a seat in the small but perfectly formed waiting area. I’d arrived unfashionably early and was therefore mentally prepared for the wait. Somewhat disconcertingly, I could hear rather a lot of banging and clanking coming from a room nearby, and I could only assume it was the scanner rather than a group of over-zealous builders. I’d been warned, by various friends in-the-know, that the machinery “is a bit loud” but had been assured that “this was quite normal”.

My hospital letter had informed me that my appointment time was actually 15 minutes before my allotted scan time, to allow for preparation, so I was pleasantly surprised that I was called into an adjoining room just 10 minutes after the time written down on my paperwork. I’d only had enough time to work myself into a minor panic, and not a full-blown cardiac situation.

A nice lady radiographer took me into a tiny corridor and sat me down while all of the questions I had already answered on my admission form were verbally repeated. Have I got any metal pins in my head? Erm – no. Have I got a pacemaker? No. Have I ever had metal fragments in either or both of my eyes? Ouch – no! Was I pregnant or breastfeeding? As a rather mature person I found the question amusing, however I remained sensible and replied, no.

I’d efficiently removed all of my jewellery beforehand, and was wearing a top with plastic rather than metal buttons; however, it hadn’t occurred to me that my bra had metal hooks. I was directed to a small changing room to remove the offending undergarment and to stash it away in one of the lockers provided. I replaced my shirt, for the sake of modesty, and was now ready to face the machinery.

I appeared to have entered the NASA Space Station, with a vast window at the far end of the room where the radiographer sat in mission control. Once I’d removed my trainers I was helped onto a terribly high and narrow table. I was now beginning to worry. The radiographer told me that the noise would be very loud, and I was to insert funky orange foam ear protectors into my lugholes. She assured me I’d still be able to hear her via the internal speaker system, which was a relief.

After shuffling up the bed so that my head fitted snugly into a vice-like contraption, large pads were placed between my foam-filled ears and the metal plates either side of my head, and a squashy green ball was placed, rather unexpectedly, into my left hand. Apparently if I squeezed it at any point during the procedure, the radiographer would instantly stop everything and come and rescue me. I was instructed to close my eyes, and to keep them closed, and to remain perfectly still for the duration. A white metal frame was positioned just above my face and this was now the point of no return. Well, unless I squeezed that little green ball at any rate.

Left alone in the room, linked to the outside world only by the voice of the lady at mission control, I admit to being a tad nervous as I sensed the table moving into position, inside the scanner. For reasons probably best left unexamined, for a split second felt as if I was inside a coffin going into a crematorium. A voice in my head, the radiographer – not some schizophrenic other ‘me’ – reminded me to remain still, and warned me that I’d hear lots of noises, but I mustn’t be alarmed. Curiosity got the better of me, and I briefly opened my eyes, however, on seeing how close the bright lights were to my face I quickly closed them again. It’s a good job I’m not acutely claustrophobic.

The first sensation that I experienced was the vibrations, a bit like a mobile phone, only it was around my head. This was nothing compared to the bizarre noises the scanner was now making. It was as if I’d been put inside a video arcade game, and some gamers were shooting aliens. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Thankfully it was soon over; however it transpired I was to have 4 scans in all, at progressively longer stints.

I soon became very aware of my own breathing, and of just how much my chest and shoulders moved with every breath. Trying to remain still was becoming a real challenge, and I have absolutely no idea how they manage to get small children to co-operate in one of those things. I expect it was purely psychological, but I seemed to itch all over and was desperate to scratch my nose, arm, leg…. I deluded myself that I was Lara Croft chasing the bad guys in her quest for the golden lollipop, by way of a distraction.

When told “Don’t swallow”, obviously the first thing you want to do is just that. When you’re flat on your back in a noisy vibrating machine, with saliva building up at an alarming rate in your mouth threatening to drown you at any moment, I’d say it’s a physical impossibility to not swallow at some point during the scan. The urge to cough is almost intolerable and it’s a relief to get it out of your system between scans.

By the third session the novelty had truly worn off, my patience was wearing thin, and I just wanted to get out. However, I focussed on the fact that I’d wanted this MRI scan done for ages, and I ought to be jolly grateful I’m finally having it done, and I really should have a tiny bit more tolerance. The radiographer seemed to be noticing my involuntary throat spasms and was quick to remind me “Stay still and don’t swallow”. After what seemed an eternity, the shoot-em-up noises stopped and it was all over and done with, hoorah.

It took a further few minutes for the table to slide out from the space shuttle, with a rather relieved middle aged peroxide blonde on it, and as I was helped back onto the floor I wondered if this was how astronauts felt when stepping foot on terra firma again following a moon mission. After carefully extracting the orange foam ear plugs, everything sounded a little too loud for a while, and the lights seemed a bit too bright, but thankfully, after just a few minutes of disorientation I soon adjusted to normality.

So, I’ve finally had my very first MRI scan, and to be honest I’m not a fanatic. It wasn’t painful and it wasn’t really uncomfortable as such, although I did struggle with having to stay still and it would possibly be a bigger challenge to anyone with severe claustrophobia. However, it’s almost beyond belief how clever these things are and we should feel very privileged that we live in an age which can provide us with such extraordinary diagnostic tools. Now, beam me up Scotty.