Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Ode to the Annual

Thin gowns. Paper sheets.

Stirrups for my cold, bare feet.

Long deep breaths to get me through.

Scraping, pressing, turning blue.

Poking. Prodding. Felt for lumps.

Going in cup. Asked about dumps.

Nothing personal; it’s part of the ride

Of getting checked from all inside.

A few more years, then getting squished

Will be added to the dreaded list.

Wish me luck, feel my pain,

At least condolences you could feign.

Once a year, it’s my fate.

3pm today; it’s a date.

4 comments:

Susie said...

Mine is in March:-)

Puphigirl said...

sounds like fun!

Ruthykins said...

i never do those. i'm so bad. it'll serve me right to get sick from some avoidable disease and die.

Rob said...

Move over Keats you are my new favorite poet.

Men have a similiar ritual where we are cupped not so gingerly, and a finger is inserted where I prefer not to have a finger inserted.

I always feel like I should call my doctor the next morning to find out if he still respects me, or maybe take him to dinner before the exam.

But yeah, women have it much worse.