“Her boobs are sooooooooo biiiiigggggg…..”
“HOW BIG ARE THEY?!?!??” – The crowd shouted
“Her boobs are SO BIG, they were invited to join a special boobie-treatment care facility.”
Yep. Trixie’s Boobs have joined a care facility. They’re members now. Or will be in two to three weeks, once the paperwork is processed.
It all started with The Spot. I’ve posted a sort-of gross-ish picture of The Spot, so you, Reader, can appreciate just why exactly I was a tich concerned when this just popped up on my freckle-y chest one fine summer morning.
See? It’s red and has raised edges and looks mean.
That white thing tucked in to my shirt? Is a dryer sheet. Because it’s supposed to ward off mosquitoes, which actually does a pretty good job of it, FYI, if you’re looking for a good-smelling mosquito repellent that keeps you static-free. I didn’t cling to anything that day.
Anyway, when this beauty cropped up and didn’t go away, I made my very first appointment with my Obamacare medical insurance facility.
I was a tich nervous. There were only two options accepting new patients in my area. So I picked the closest one, and made my appointment. I was pleasantly impressed that I was able to get in within a couple of days, no long wait.
I started to wonder exactly what I had gotten myself into when the directions included “Next to Dave’s Mercado” and closer inspection of their website revealed a whole entire section dedicated to Refugee Services. I mean, good for the refugees. But do I belong there? was the question in my brain. Because sometimes my fancy purses and fancy watch and fancy car makes me get bigger than myself, which in reality is an unemployed person using Obamacare and swimming around in a blow-up pool from the discount store.
So I told my ego to simmer down and drove to my doctor appointment.
There was a hotdog stand at the corner of the parking lot, which I viewed as a plus because who doesn’t love a parking lot hotdog?! We all do, Reader, except for The Healthy Hoff and maybe a handful of others who don’t know good food when they smell it in the parking lot of a medical practice.
I walked in behind a guy who was also going in to the office, but as he opened the door he hocked up a great big ball of moisture from his mouth right there on the sidewalk near me and the door.
I was charmed.
And upon entering the clinic right next to the Mercado, I was greeted with a very big dose of B.O. For realz. I’m not blogzaggerating,* Reader.
It was the B. Plus a whole lot of O.
It was a vast waiting area, full of a cornucopia of people, and there were five (or more, I was a little shell-shocked at that point) numbered desk areas and they were just shouting out people’s names and kids were running around and throwing pamphlets on the floor, and an old Chinese man sitting next to me made a really wet sounding noise and I heard a lot of languages all at once.
I was woozy and took a very careful seat.
By the time my name was
shouted across the room called, I was relieved to be doing something other than trying to not catch germs.
The girl at the counter could not have been nicer, or more efficient.
She asked a lot of questions and I’m now listed in all capital letters on my Official Chart as “NOT HOMELESS.” Again, no blogzaggeration.
They also asked if I was sexually active, and did that include Men, Women, or Both. That’s in my chart now too, so I’m not sure if I’m allowed to switch or if I have to stick with my answer.
Also, they wanted to take a photo of me to match me up with my records for ever and ever, Amen, but I declined because I looked pretty horrible as I will admit I did not gussy up at all for the appointment. I figured the standards were low there (re: Refugee Services) and I didn’t try at all. That’s one point on the plus side for this experience, no need to put on fancy airs.
By the time my name was yelled across the whole entire waiting area announcing it was my turn, I was more than ready to get my Spot looked at and get out of there.
I walked through the double doors and it was there that I left the world of B.O. and Chaos behind and walked into a brightly lit and clean-smelling medical wonderland of purposeful activity. I was weighed and measured, where I was surprised to find out I’m actually a 1/2 inch shorter than I used to be, so I apparently bought that inversion table just in the nick of time before I shrink up into a teeny tiny version of my self.
And I also found out my blood pressure, which was pre-hypertension- high during my Tiny Town Era, is now on the normal/low side. So yeah, one more plus for no more Tiny Town.
The girl taking all my stats could not have been more pleasant and nice. And she asked a lot of questions, reiterating the sex life activity question, and she also asked me about my boobs and my past appointments at the Cleveland Clinic regarding my boobs.
I asked her how she knew all that and she said, “Well, you’re a new patient, so I did a little research and since we’re linked with the Cleveland Clinic I was able to pull up all your records from your biopsy back in 2011, and have that all here, including the images, for the doctor to see when she comes in.”
Who? What? Huh?? I mean, Who does that, Reader?? I’ve never ever ever been to a first doctors appointment anywhere where they’ve researched to get all info they could about my health.
I was flabbergasted and impressed.
And then I met my Obamacare doctor.
And was even more impressed.
She took her time.
We chatted. A lot.
She got to know me, and by the middle of that appointment she asked me to take off my shirt so she could give my boobs an initial exam because she was far more worried about my lack of follow-up on my boobs since 2011 than she was about that Spot on my chest.
She was going to give me a pap test, too, but we both agreed that neither one of us was up to that impromptu morning routine. We’re going to save that for our second date, wherein I’ll have a chance to prepare my area and shave my legs for the debut. It’s only polite, and my vagina likes to be mannerly.
My boobies were pronounced A-Okay from the initial feel-up, but she wanted them to join the special care facility so they can be monitored on a regular basis. She typed up a whole lot of notes on her computer and get this – all my info is going to a patient advocate person, who will find the best place for my boobies to be seen based on my location requirements and insurance. They are going to do all the research for me and call to talk to me about it within 2 to 3 weeks.
I have never had a doctors office do the research for me.
I did ask the doctor if she was “going to be my person every time I came in.” She laughed and said, “Yes, we will be each other’s person from now on.” I wanted to be sure I wasn’t just passed around like a piece of meat-with-big-boobs every time I go in there.
As for my Spot, Reader? The initial spot that brought me into this medical wonderland? Well, she doesn’t think my Web MD diagnosis is accurate, she scoffed at my Internet diagnosis. She didn’t see “basal cell carcinoma” when she looked at it, so she prescribed a gel for it and we’re going to monitor it for the next couple of weeks.
The moral of this story is something about don’t judge a doctor’s office by the smelly B.O.’d chaotic waiting room.
And get your boobs checked. See how this blog serves as a public service announcement? I think this qualifies me to raise funds and start a race in the name of Trixie’s Boobies.
*blogzaggeration is when Trixie Bang Bang may take liberties with a story because it’s her story and she can tell it any way she wants, with made-up overly-hyped parts because she likes to think of herself as an “avid story teller” instead of a liar-liar-pants-on-fire blogger.