I am rarely called on the landline these days. When it does happen, it is usually not for me. Usually the person calling is looking for Francis. Now, I do not know who Francis is, but it is not me. I did not buy my house from Francis and the person who lived here before the vendor was not Francis either. So I really do not know who Francis is.
However, today, the phone call was not for Francis. It was for me.
“Would it be possible to rearrange your clinic appoint please?”
“Erm, clinic appointment?”
“Yes, the one following your mammogram recall.”
If my life were a tv drama there would be scary/suspense filled music playing at this point. However, despite times when I wonder, it is not, so instead of the opening bars of Bach’s Toccata & Fugue in D Minor there was silence. Which in itself was pretty suspense filled now I come to think of it.
You may have gathered, this was news to me. And possibly not the best news I have had this week. This year actually. But then it is only January. It turned out the letter I should have received had inadvertently been sent second class and a week later than anticipated. It arrived later that day. Cut backs.
Last week I had a lovely time enjoying my femininity to the full. I started the day with a cervical smear and followed it up with the second mammogram of my life. I began the whole mammogram adventure at the tender age of 47. I am now 50. The joys of womanhood. Woo!
So now I have the delights of yet more prodding and poking at the Breast Clinic. I know the statistics. I know the odds are in my favour. 4 out of 100 women are recalled following mammograms. Of that 4, 3 are found to have perfectly normal breasts. So the chances are that I will be one of those. That I will rock up to clinic, have a few more snaps taken of my boobs, a bit of prodding, a further probe with ultrasound and then that will be that for the next 3 years. Well, bring it on!