Yesterday afternoon was my first bone density scan. It was scheduled immediately after my annual mammogram. I mean, how much fun can you have in one afternoon, right? At any rate, I walked into the room clutching my thin, purple hospital top, tied to open in front, unsure what to expect. 

“We’re just going to get a weight,” said the technician, stopping in front of a scale. 

“Okay,” I said, taking off my shoes, wishing I hadn’t worn jeans.

I stepped on the scale and she recorded the number. 

“Now a height, “ she said, “and then I have a few questions to ask.” She gestured toward a sort of measuring station. “Stand there.” 

I dutifully stood with my back against the wall, and she moved a piece down until it rested on the crown of my head.

“Ok,” she said, “5 feet 4.5 inches.”

Wait! What!

I’d become accustomed to the half inch I’d lost somewhere through the years, but now there was another half inch gone!? What’s up with that!? My mind raced.

I think I was slouching. I’m sure I could have stood up straighter! Why didn’t she tell me to stand up my straightest? Should I ask her to measure again? 

Meanwhile, I sat down and responded automatically to the questions she was posing.

“Do you take calcium supplements?”
“No.”

“Do you take estrogen?”
“No.”

Then after a slew of other questions, she asked, maybe in a fake friendly voice, (Was she trying to rub it in?!) “What is the tallest height you’ve ever been?”

I never expected that I would ever be asked that question. Ever. 

In my head all I heard was, “I’m shrinking!” echoing over and over à la Margaret Hamilton.