Today I managed to make it to my rescheduled follow-up with my breast surgeon, after having gotten the time wrong last time. Now, I’ve known for some time that this woman is sort of a card, and it’s part of the reason I really like her. It’s a full-service operation, you know? Feel you up, crack jokes. Everything you need.
But I was unprepared, today, when she checked my latest mammogram report and directed me to open my paper robe. She started feeling around while explaining that there’s still that area we’re “watching” (it’s calcification! which may be nothing! or which may be something!) in the right breast but so far, so good. We chatted (again) about how being fibrocystic makes for fairly lumpy boops so it can be hard to know when there’s a matter for concern.
She was mid-probe when she said, “Have you ever thought of naming it?”
“Naming what?” My breast? A particular lump? I may be behind on the latest body-part-naming etiquette.
“The calcified area! I think you should name it Pedro. That’s a nice name.”
When you write for a living and you realize that actually even a busy surgeon is funnier than you are, it’s a dark moment. But then while the surgeon was making notes in fairly legible handwriting I was able to suggest that her shiny new award in the lobby actually had “best penmanship by a doctor” inscribed in teeny letters along the base, and that almost evened things out.
That’s all I’ve got; Pedro and I have had a long day and need to get to bed.