First an ominous letter arrives warning me I am overdue for a pap smear. Of course I am. One of life’s most unpleasant medical procedures comes around way too often. Had you asked me, I would have guessed I last endured this procedure two years ago. Nasty memories remain even though five years have slipped by.
I grab the diary.
Another letter arrives advising I am due for a mammogram. It has been two years since that dismal day when my breasts were carefully placed on a sheet of glass. I watched with curiosity that morphed into terror as the technician lowered a second plate until each breat, one after the after was squashed. Surely if they didn’t have problems before this, then they most certainly would afterwards. With a faraway look and some disdain, the technician urged me to keep still as I sobbed a little bit. I had nightmares for weeks and avoided the curious teenage daughters lest they hear about the fate that awaits. Later I discovered that women’s breasts hurt more during mammography when victims are premenstrual. I wish I’d been forewarned about that when I booked in.
I grab the diary.
I require regular blood tests. The doctor calls. The latest blood results show an increase in my cholesterol level. This has occurred long since switching to watery fat-free milk. I avoid cream, cheese and ice cream and stay away from all processed food. In fact, I should take calcium tablets, but they make me ill.
The absence of dairy frightens the specialist. A dairy-free existence combined with cortisone munching over two decades predisposes me to osteoporosis. I might fall over and break my hip. Worse, I might develop that unkindly labelled deformity, the “widow’s hump”.
I need to see a specialist. I grab the diary.
The blood test also reveals that I am anaemic and require a transfusion sometime soon.
I grab the diary.
Meanwhile my moods are mercurial and during low moments I feel like taking a carving knife and stabbing the beloveds. All very normal, except that I also experience searing rushes of heat to my upper body, even on icy days. When I lie in bed at night my skin crawls. Thousands of ants under my skin are running marathons up and down my arms.
"Welcome to menopause," says the doc, as if I didn’t know. I wonder about treatment options and reflect on my mum who refused medication but seemed miserable for years.
"Let's take this slowly," says the doctor. How about let's ignore it and hope it goes away?
Life sucks someimes. But I'm alive. I must remember that.
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