By Annette Dashofy
As you are reading this, my hubby is either about to have, is having, or has just had his first colonoscopy. My hubby also hates, hates, HATES when I include him in my blogs or worse yet, blog ABOUT him, so we’ll leave him out of it from here on. Instead, we’ll just discuss the joys of getting older.
As we age, there are certain “milestone” birthdays that trigger doctors’ test-giving endorphins. At thirty-five, I was told I had to have a base-line mammogram. After forty, I had to get one every year. Lately, it’s become every six months and other, newer, more accurate tests have been added to the curriculum. This month, I had a magnified mammogram, a BSGI test (mammogram with radiation) and I’m having a needle biopsy to remove some calcification which no one thinks are anything, but they don’t belong there. Oh, joy.
Did you catch the keyword there? Needle?
Why are there always needles?
Still I’d rather have all this done than go through the prep for a colonoscopy. We won’t go into details. You can probably figure it out.
Apparently the fiftieth birthday is the one where the medical profession has designated as time to screen your colon. Guess which birthday the person in the first paragraph (who shall remain nameless and not mentioned in any form online) recently passed. Actually, he put it off a year, so add one year to that BIG birthday.
I, on the other hand, intend to remain 49 for several more years. Not because I’m vain. But because I don’t want the doctors to get that gleeful look in their eyes as they pull out the prescription pad to order that twenty-gallon drum of toxic sludge that does horrific things to your body.
No, no. I am NOT turning 50 this summer. Absolutely not. Where would you get such an idea? All of my earlier medical charts must have my year of birth wrong.
And if they don’t buy that, well, they’ll have to catch me first. I’m pretty fast for an old broad.