Who’s calling me dense?

January 10, 2012

I disliked going to the doctor when I was a kid. At the time, I thought it was frightening and threw a tantrum a time or two when I got a shot. I never worried that I might have a serious illness (thankfully I didn’t). What I didn’t understand  then was that I would like it even less once I became an adult.

Now the only time I like to go to the doctor is when I have some bug that’s gone viral – okay, bacterial. Of course I have to make sure I have been sick enough for enough days so that the doc will indeed give me some antibiotics. A few days later I feel much better and that’s the end of that.

As an adult, with some years of life experience, it’s the preventive doctor visits I dislike. I go in feeling fine, believing all is well … and then I get some call saying, oh you need to come back in for a re-check.

Mammograms are a great example. Fortunately for them, men do not get to endure this crushing pain. Literally. Crushing. Pain. Open refrigerator door – insert appendage – close and push with all your weight. And by the way, hold your breath and don’t move the entire time. What a refreshing way to conduct an examination.

Inevitably they call me back. As if one crushing experience wasn’t enough fun, they need to repeat it, along with a couple extra images this time. A doctor or tech told me once my boobs are “dense.” Maybe they were calling my boobs dumb, but I took it to be good news as a contributing factor to this extreme stress they cause me year after year with the call backs.

The eye doctor is of course the exception. I’ve needed glasses since 5th grade so I really don’t have to worry much there. The glaucoma check might ring a teeny, tiny alarm in the back of my head just in case that might come up positive. But except for the nearsightedness, now a bit complicated by presbyopia, my eyes are good. (If you are too young to know what presbyopia is, you probably still think going to the doctor is no big deal.)

Dr. Dentist, sorry but you were never and still are not my friend. That one bad experience with some whack job when I was six or so, followed by my parents scolding me for crying because you caused me severe pain, coupled with lots of fillings and crowns, leaves me with nothing but dread. It is only my shred of hope that the regular semi-annual exams will prevent further problems that bring me to your chair twice a year. Just know that if you make one wrong move, I’m outta there!


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