Last Friday, I had a regularly-scheduled checkup with my oncologist. He’s only a few years older than J.P. and me, and we really like him. We were ushered back to the tiny exam room, which had barely enough room for two patient chairs, the exam table, and the little roller stool that the doc sits on.
The appointment started as all my appointments do. J.P. and I sat in the patient chairs and chatted with Mac, who sat on his Official Doctor Stool. Then he patted the exam table and I hopped up so he could take my blood pressure, check my lymph nodes, etc. After he finished, he said, “May I offer you a lovely paper towel to wear for the rest of the exam?” He handed me the little mini vest and left the room.
I took off my sweater and my camisole thingy, then peeled off my breast prostheses (they stick to my chest wall), laid everything on my chair, and got up on the table again. Mac came back in and finished the exam. Usually that’s the extent of the appointment, but not this time.
We ended up talking some more, and he asked me to move back to my chair so he could use the exam table as a writing surface. This would’ve been fine, except that my chair was occupied . . . by my boobs. I picked them up and looked for another place to set them. But because it was such a small room, there really wasn’t anyplace. I made a motion as if to hand them to J.P., but then realized he didn’t have anywhere to put them either. And he would’ve felt even weirder sitting there holding them.
So I chuckled a little bit and sat down to finish our conversation, still wearing the paper towel. With a boob in each hand. Nice.