Has the Memo Haunted You Yet?
It first arrived at a place I least expected, having the gall to pin itself on me as I sat unsuspecting in the exam room. And then it had the audacity to follow me out of the doctor’s office to my car, where it plastered its pink self on my windshield, like a glaring ticket.
All the way home I kept swiping with my wipers but it wouldn’t go away. When I parked in my driveway, I plucked the annoying announcement off my glass and crumbled it into the outside trash.
But…it seemed to be alive. To my horror, I watched as it crawled over the sides of the rubbish receptacle and inch its way through the door ahead of me. When it crossed the threshold into the kitchen, I stomped on it. There, take that you pest.
I sprayed it with Raid for good measure, then carefully scooped up the carcass with a dustpan and slammed a lid on it.
Sighing relief, I went to relax in the bathroom. Washing my face, I was glad my routine check-up was off my back for another year. But when I looked up and saw my reflection, I screamed. The memo was back, tacked to the mirror.
Congratulations! You’re old.
“Stop it! I’m only 37.”
Mulling over my doctor's casual words, I couldn’t believe my ears. Had she really said I could start having mammograms?
She’s crazy, I brushed off. Everyone knows the guidelines say forty. Luckily, it was just a suggestion, not an urgent referral. I didn’t have a family history, lump detection or immediate need. Still, the revelation bumped me up an age bracket I wasn’t ready for.
I decided to ignore the taunting Pepto Bismol dismal shade it was throwing and the reminder finally slunk away. Good riddance. I had two kids to feed and one needed help with homework. I nestled into the knowledge that I was still in my thirties.
A few days later on the way to work, a health commercial for mammograms blared from the radio. Apparently, financial stress, divorce, and grief could contribute to cancer. Yikes! What with juggling the mortgage, my recent divorce and the fresh loss of my dad, I hit the trifecta. I did a quick look-see. Was that creepy paper trailing me again? The coast was clear but so was the message.
You might think I gave in. But no, I ran in, scrambled to my desk and made the appointment.
I was nervous on the scheduled day, but all went well despite the humorous yet horrifying legend my female boss divulged. The squashing wasn’t too bad either, sort of like an awkward game of topless twister. And contrary to my boss’ story, the power did not go out and leave my girls dented like permanent pancakes.
I'm pretty sure hospital generators remedy that, anyway.
Whew, I survived my first rite of medical passage! And the result came back normal, too. Easing into my new era was easier than I thought. Plus I still had a few years until I turned 40.
It's been sixteen years now and I'm a pro in the booby-smashers game. This month I have an appointment on Halloween. On my calendar, I wrote, "Boo-bies." Kind of fitting don't you think?
Is the mammo memo following you, too?
~~This excerpt of "The Memo" is a flash fiction story about a comical aging reminder as it haunts me on a few more milestone occasions. (it's a work in progress.)
Copyright © 2018 Chele Pedersen Smith
All the way home I kept swiping with my wipers but it wouldn’t go away. When I parked in my driveway, I plucked the annoying announcement off my glass and crumbled it into the outside trash.
But…it seemed to be alive. To my horror, I watched as it crawled over the sides of the rubbish receptacle and inch its way through the door ahead of me. When it crossed the threshold into the kitchen, I stomped on it. There, take that you pest.
I sprayed it with Raid for good measure, then carefully scooped up the carcass with a dustpan and slammed a lid on it.
Sighing relief, I went to relax in the bathroom. Washing my face, I was glad my routine check-up was off my back for another year. But when I looked up and saw my reflection, I screamed. The memo was back, tacked to the mirror.
Congratulations! You’re old.
“Stop it! I’m only 37.”
Mulling over my doctor's casual words, I couldn’t believe my ears. Had she really said I could start having mammograms?
She’s crazy, I brushed off. Everyone knows the guidelines say forty. Luckily, it was just a suggestion, not an urgent referral. I didn’t have a family history, lump detection or immediate need. Still, the revelation bumped me up an age bracket I wasn’t ready for.
I decided to ignore the taunting Pepto Bismol dismal shade it was throwing and the reminder finally slunk away. Good riddance. I had two kids to feed and one needed help with homework. I nestled into the knowledge that I was still in my thirties.
A few days later on the way to work, a health commercial for mammograms blared from the radio. Apparently, financial stress, divorce, and grief could contribute to cancer. Yikes! What with juggling the mortgage, my recent divorce and the fresh loss of my dad, I hit the trifecta. I did a quick look-see. Was that creepy paper trailing me again? The coast was clear but so was the message.
You might think I gave in. But no, I ran in, scrambled to my desk and made the appointment.
I was nervous on the scheduled day, but all went well despite the humorous yet horrifying legend my female boss divulged. The squashing wasn’t too bad either, sort of like an awkward game of topless twister. And contrary to my boss’ story, the power did not go out and leave my girls dented like permanent pancakes.
I'm pretty sure hospital generators remedy that, anyway.
Whew, I survived my first rite of medical passage! And the result came back normal, too. Easing into my new era was easier than I thought. Plus I still had a few years until I turned 40.
It's been sixteen years now and I'm a pro in the booby-smashers game. This month I have an appointment on Halloween. On my calendar, I wrote, "Boo-bies." Kind of fitting don't you think?
Is the mammo memo following you, too?
~~This excerpt of "The Memo" is a flash fiction story about a comical aging reminder as it haunts me on a few more milestone occasions. (it's a work in progress.)
Copyright © 2018 Chele Pedersen Smith
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