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:
Mine is in March:-)
sounds like fun!
i never do those. i'm so bad. it'll serve me right to get sick from some avoidable disease and die.
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.
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