Here Endeth the Lesson

The Dutchman was late today.  He kept me waiting more than an hour, and for what?  Good news on the mammogram:  another clear test, about which I'm chuffed.  The most perfunctory of examinations.  And an unhappy discussion about my weight.

I know carrying excess weight increases my risk of recurrence.  Hell, carrying excess weight increases my risk of a lot of things, including heart attack, stroke and the likelihood of never having another first date.  Being chided by a rail-thin specialist who professes to crank out two 75km bike rides a week, and admits weight loss is not his field, adds no value to the conversation.

So, given that today was our last date, maybe it's just as well.  It's time both The Dutchman and I moved on.  What a long strange trip it's been.

Same Ol' Same Ol', With a Twist

After five years on the cancer trail, mammograms are nothing if not routine.  But just when you think you've seen and done it all, there's a new variation on the old theme.

Today's technician couldn't have topped out anywhere near 5' tall.  At 5'10", I towered over her.  So, for the first time ever, I sat for today's procedure.  That enabled her to manipulate both the equipment and my assorted chestal regions without the need of a milk crate to stand on.

Beyond that small novelty, there was nothing surprising about the experience.  Clothes off, gown on, gown off, squish, squish, gown on, gown off, clothes on, done.  In a week, I'll know the story.