Big Girl Panties Week

Most people think I sail through life, being awesome and brave and all together. That I stare down adversity  and kick it's arse if it dares to try to touch me, so long as it doesn't involve a major renovation.  That there isn't much that phases me and not much I can't handle. That I'm a tackle things head on kind of chick.

That's pretty much true.  Crap happens in life and you just have to pick yourself up , dust yourself off, occasionally crawl into a corner for a bit to  lick your wounds and  then get up and just deal with it.

The truth is people, part of  me is a wuss and worse still an ostrich. I can ignore things I don't want to know about for weeks and sometimes months if I have to.  I'm talking about "I think there is something wrong with me health wise  and I don't really want to know what it is until the kitchen is finished , Miss P and Little P are settled in their own home and Mr. P has a new job" kind of ignoring.

But eventually when the  lump the size of an egg  in your side  starts reminding you of a camel's hump (or a third breast - thanks for that descriptor  Marg because it really did give me laugh this week in my darkest hours )  and you can't raise a smile when you think of the line "my hump, my hump, my hump" from that awesome Black Eyed peas song  and after months of ignoring it and worrying about all the kinds of nasty that it could be and it's got to the stage you've looked up how much you're worth dead so that your husband will be able to live a comfortable life when you're gone, it's time to put your big girl panties on and get your heinie to the doctor.

And so that's what I've been doing for the past week. Wearing big girl  panties and having complete strangers ask me repeatedly to take them off while I got poked and prodded in places that I normally don't flash in polite company. It's been a long time since anyone but Mr. P asked me to get my gear off.

In fairy tales "Abracadabra" makes all sorts of things happen. In medicine  when your doctor says  "I think it's a tumour"  it has the same sort of effect except that what happens is that it suddenly entitles  pretty much everyone to have a look at all your bits and  the medical profession becomes mighty interested in testing you for everything else that has ever been described in Mosby's medical dictionary. Consequently you will have Xrays, ultrasounds, lectures on giving up smoking,  and enough blood sucked out of you to satisfy a coven of vampires while they test you for pretty much everything  from ingrown toenail to myeloid leukemia. 

Since I spent so much of my early professional life poking and prodding people I have developed a personal aversion to having it done to me. I'm pretty  much over my anti pokey -proddy phase at this point. Every man and his dog has had a shot this week. I did learn I'm not dead yet because the ultra sound guy was very cute and all I could think about was whether or not I was wearing a decent bra. It was a huge disappointment when I recalled I was wearing one of my less tasty pieces of underwear apparel and that it probably qualified as vintage.  Vintage is good in furniture  and frocks, but not underwear. Go figure.

And I don't really understand why we had to do a you know what smear when the lump was on my left rib cage nowhere near my hoo-ha.  - I'm not whinging - I'm just saying. Had I not suffered enough indignity this week? On the up side the thought of said hoo haa inspection prompted me to shave my legs and paint my toenails just like if I was going on a date so that was a positive.

Anyway , most of the results are back. We can all breathe a sigh of relief. Apparently I'm an asthmatic hypochondriac with mild osteopenia  who should give up smoking. The lipoma is benign. Miraculously my lungs are clear.  And can you believe with all the avoiding I do of vegetables and all the butter I slather on everything and all those slack teas I create, that  my cholesterol, platelets, vitamin levels  and everything else are perfectly normal? It's comforting to know that the 10 kilos I've lost this year has actually been from sensible eating , and bad food denial  and not because my insides are being eaten away by some hideous disease. The ultimate verdict at this stage is I'm getting older, I'm getting tired-er, and that I need to eat better, avoid stress and give up smoking (Yes Doctor, I heard you the first six times )  

There are a few of you out there that have known this has been  going on this week. Frankly I have been crapping myself. I'm  a happy camper once again and  I want to thank you for your support. You know who you are. And you are awesome.

Now if you'll excuse me I have some mundane things to do, which after this week of excitement is just fine with me.

P.S. I'm giving up smoking. Yes I'm succumbing to ongoing peer pressure.  Be afraid- be very afraid. I have a plan.