“When was your last menstrual period?” Amy, my primary care nurse, asks.
“Um …” I ponder.
Amy can see me struggling with the mental math, so she pulls out a wall calendar from the desk drawer.
“Here, this might be easier.”
Ah yes, there it is. I’m looking at the dates and mostly guessing it must have been the week of November 14, because I had it after the Sioux Falls trip but before the Burn the Bird 5K.
“November thirteenth-ish?”
“Good enough,” she says and types the date into my chart. From where I’m sitting, I have just enough peripheral vision to catch a fairly clear glimpse of my medical record on her computer screen while she takes my blood pressure.
Why I feel the need to creep on my own medical history is odd, but I still feel like I’m looking at something I’m not supposed to.
History of breast cancer malignancies — paternal. [Shit, that sucks.]
History of dementia, NOS — mother dx’d age 61. [Fuck, I’m screwed.]
History of alcohol abuse — in remission, August 2018. [Jesus, how humiliating.]
“114 over 72. That’s great,” Amy says. “Perfect blood pressure.”
