Last Sunday as I was changing clothes, I felt a lump in my breast. Or so I thought, given my fibro-cysto pair of lumpy little boobies. I didn't panic, but I didn't want to ignore the unusual either. Luckily, I'd just that weekend received the letter from my OB-GYN reminding me to schedule my annual well-woman visit. When I called and booked that appointment two months out, I mentioned my bothersome breast, and they gave me a slot the next morning.
Dr. Knapp was her usual combination of no-nonsense friendliness, and got right to feeling me up. After touching the sore and solid mass on my left, she walked around the table and created the exact same pain on the other breast. "That's no lump," she announced, "that's your rib." I certainly felt like an idiot, if a relieved one. And then she gave me a prescription (although she didn't write it down): Go bra shopping! Apparently my two-year-old undergarments are fitting me all wrong, whether due to their age or my changing body – probably both. Noting that she herself had recently tried on two dozen models at Dillard's before finding the perfect fit, Dr. Knapp stated the obvious: I benefit from having a female gynecologist. Amen, sister! I haven't made it to Nordstrom yet, but I look forward to telling the person who fits me that I am there on doctor's orders.
(Meanwhile, I'll browse some posts at the excellent Sweet Nothings blog, and get an idea of the variety that awaits. )